Everything to lose
by emmiemac
Summary: Once she returned to Winterfell, Sansa wanted only the peace and happiness of her family again; but even a little bird's children will want to leave their nest. As the Hound, Sandor had expected nothing from life. Now, as Lord Clegane, he has a wife and children and he realizes that having everything also means having everything to lose. Futurefic. Profanity, non-graphic sex.
1. Chapter 1

_DISCLAIMER: This story is entirely based on character[s] from George R.R. Martin's _A Song of Ice and Fire

**EVERYTHING TO LOSE**

Sandor climbed the stairs with the laughter of the Blackfish ringing in his ears as it echoed through the Great Hall of Winterfell.

"Seven bloody buggering hells," he cursed angrily. "_Lord_ Clegane: you must have been half-mad, dog."

The Cleganes had never been lords; only an up-jumped kennel-master whose son was made squire who then in turn fathered two hugely strong and fierce sons who were loyal as the dogs on their sigil to their lion masters.

Gregor, the eldest and known as the Mountain for being the biggest man in Westeros, brought honour to the family in being knighted by Prince Rhaegar himself, then later brought infamy for raping and strangling the prince's widowed princess and murdering her infant son during the sack of King's Landing. Sandor, the younger and known as the Hound for his unquestioning loyalty and ferocity, was sworn shield to Queen Cersei and then her son Joffrey before turning deserter and then traitor when he joined the cause of the North and the Stark family, helping to restore them to their rightful place in Winterfell and defeat their enemies. For this service, he was raised to lordship by the youngest son, heir to his father's lands and title, not just in gratitude but so that he would be a fit consort for the eldest Stark daughter.

_Sansa._

He slowed in his angry march to his chambers, his frustration abating as he remembered why he had taken on this life or respectability and responsibility, a life he had never thought he had wanted or deserved.

He paused before the heavy wooden doors now and opened one quietly as he peered in. The large chamber glowed dimly from the fire in the hearth, and a maid stood brushing his wife's deep, coppery auburn hair as she sat with her eyes closed, and Sandor knew she was recalling the memory of her mother who had often dismissed the maid to brush her daughter's hair herself. He knew because she had told him years ago when he had brushed her hair for her, when there were no maids or luxuries at Winterfell, only cold and hunger and hard work and battles to be fought. Yet still he made time when he could to do that little for her as they would prepare for bed and as awkward as he was at it: his huge hands were for holding a sword and not a lady's hairbrush but he did it to make her feel loved and safe again, the daughter of Winterfell.

"Lord Clegane, my lady," her maid murmured to her when she realized he was standing in the doorway, watching them.

"My lord," Sansa spoke with a soft smile even before she opened her eyes to look to him. She dismissed her maid with a kind nod and rose to walk to him. Ever courteous, she used his title whenever servants or commons or his men were present, giving him the respect she believed he had earned and merited. Even now, there were those who still thought him an upstart, like his grandfather before him. Mayhaps they were right, he thought resignedly; but this made it all worth it.

She stood before him with a gentle smile, deep blue eyes holding his gaze lovingly. He took in the white skin, the full lips and soft curve of her cheek, framed on one side by the heavy fall of her auburn hair over one shoulder that reached almost to her waist. His eyes followed down her tall, willowy body covered by her robe and bedgown but beneath he knew intimately every part of her creamy warm skin and beautiful womanly figure and had to remind himself to breathe; sometimes his heart filled so suddenly when he looked at her that he forgot he needed air almost as much as he needed his little bird.

She held her slender white hands out to him now and he took them in his own callused grip.

"I heard you coming up the stairs," she told him, referring to what must have been his angry stomping. "Is there something troubling you, my love?"

Sandor lifted one of her hands to his half-scarred lips and kissed it in gratitude.

"Not anymore," he rasped in reply.

….

Sansa curled up closer to her husband. Their lovemaking had been slow and gentle and she had felt the deep trembling in his bones that meant he was holding back his lust out of tender love for her, as he had done the first time they lay together and for some time after until her maiden's shyness dissipated and her passions matched his.

She luxuriated in the warm closeness of his strong naked body under the furs of their bed, twining one long leg between his and reaching her arm across his broad chest. She sighed as she settled her head on his shoulder and felt his arm hold her closer.

"Will you tell me now," she whispered and glanced up at him when he stirred. "I know a raven came before the evening meal, my love: will you not tell me what is troubling you?"

He grunted grudgingly. "Aye, a raven: from the Reach…" he began.

Sansa lifted her head suddenly. "Robb?" She breathed, fearful for the son they had named for her elder brother.

"He's fine, little bird; don't worry," he rasped but stroked her cheek gently. Their second son had traveled to the Reach after Garlan Tyrell's son left their care following his years as their ward at Winterfell. The boys had become loyal friends and so the Tyrells had invited Robb back with Willam when he returned to his father's castle where both boys had been made squires to household knights. He was the first of their children to leave the North and though Sansa trusted Garlan Tyrell she still held painful memories of her life in the South and worried for him so far from his family.

"He is planning to return now the maesters of the Citadel have declared summer ended, before travel becomes impossible and he is unable to return for years."

"Robb is coming home to Winterfell?" She spoke tremulously and Sandor knew her eyes were filling with tears of happiness.

"Yes, little b-" But Sansa hugged him so suddenly and tightly that he huffed a short laugh.

"Oh, Sandor," she whispered happily.

"Do not celebrate too soon, little bird: the return of one of our children may well mean the loss of another," he told her almost bitterly. "The eldest boy of your Garlan the Gallant, the one named for that Knight of the Flowers, has requested the honour of Catya's hand."

Sansa was quiet as she listened and remained quiet another moment.

"Young Loras Tyrell?" She repeated and Sandor grunted his affirmation.

"He is heir to his father's title and lands," she spoke almost absently.

"Aye, and been knighted as well, like his uncle Ser Daisy," he rasped dismissively.

"Hush, Sandor: being knighted does not make him bad, any more than it would make him good. His father was kind to me in…" She hesitated and swallowed. Sansa did not like to speak of her years in King's Landing as the Lannisters' hostage, nor think of her marriage to Tyrion Lannister though Garlan Tyrell had been the only one to offer her comfort that day at her wedding feast, proving himself truly gallant; and she had never forgotten.

"And you liked Garlan yourself when he brought Willam to Winterfell, did you not? You certainly behaved well, my love: not your usual gruff and grudging tolerance at all," she teased him.

"I played by lordly role well, did I, little bird? Well, I'll be damned to seven hells if I know how to do that now: I'm no high lord looking for alliances. I'm not selling off my girl like a bloody brood mare to the first ser with lands and a fancy name-"

He was growing angry. Sansa pressed the palm of her hand over his heart, stilling him.

"My love," she whispered, "our Catya is a woman grown, near two years flowered. She must marry someday. We have always known we could not keep her forever."

She lay next to him in the dark, listening to his heavy breathing as he struggled with the truth he did not want to hear. Their daughter was their first-born babe and his truest love: Catya adored her Papa, from the moment she had set eyes on him, and had gentled him in ways even Sansa had not. He was not going to give her up without a fight; and no one in Westeros fought more fiercely than Sandor Clegane.


	2. Chapter 2

"Does anyone else know about the raven?" Sansa asked the next morning as she broke her fast in their chamber. Sandor would eat with his men in the Great Hall after training in the yard as he did every morning.

"Just the maester…and the Blackfish," he told her grumpily. "I asked his council and the old warrior laughed at me: said he'd avoided marriage and family so he would never have to make such decisions. Said I would have to sink or swim as Lord Clegane on my own," he finished.

Sansa could not suppress her giggle. "I hope I have never left you to do any swimming on your own," she then told him.

His eyes met hers as he sat to pull on his boots.

"No, little bird, you haven't," he acknowledged, then he sighed. "So you approve the match. I should not be surprised, you were always dreaming of knights with fair faces so at least your daughter-"

"That's not fair," she interrupted firmly. "I was young and foolish and learned a hard lesson, many hard lessons. I would never wish that on our daughter, Sandor."

He came and knelt beside her, chastened. "Forgive me, little bird, it was unfair. I-"

She dropped her eyes. "How could you doubt me after all our years, Sandor: when you know it was you I dreamt of for so long before we found each other again?" She whispered hoarsely.

"Forgive me," he repeated. "It's not you I doubt, little bird; I doubt myself: I want to do right by our daughter, and now I find I don't know how to do that," he admitted ruefully.

Sansa looked at him tenderly now. "Loras Tyrell seemed a fine young man when he was here to escort Willam and Robb home. He was here a full turn of the moon and treated everyone kindly and respectfully. We know his father. Did you not also spar with him once? Did you not find him worthy?"

"Aye, but he won't be sparring with our daughter, little bird; at least he best not," he threatened darkly. "Not that we'll know," he added bitterly, "for she'll be in the Reach…and therefore far out of our reach."

Sansa bit her lip now in apprehension. She trusted Garlan and his wife, Leonnette, and knew them to be good. She also remembered how they had respected Sandor as Lord Clegane when they brought Willam to Winterfell to be warded, telling their youngest son how he would be raised and trained by one of the best fighters in Westeros and to obey Sandor and Sansa as he would obey his own parents. And they had both looked at Sandor, never flinching or averting their eyes, and Sansa had not forgotten that either. But she did not truly know young Loras; he lived in the Reach, the South. If only she could speak with Robb first-

No, Robb may know the Tyrells and the Reach but Robb would not be marrying young Loras; her daughter would.

"We must speak with Catya, Sandor; we must know her thoughts in this. You know well she will obey you, whatever you decide. But let us not begin to consider sending her so far away to a man she does not or cannot care for, or a life she does not want. Mayhaps she will settle the matter for us."

Sandor nodded solemnly now, then eyed her last morsel of bread and honey and jerked his chin.

"Very well," Sansa laughed softly at him as she stuffed the morsel into his open mouth. "Go train now; and do try not to kill anyone."

"If you insist, my lady." He bowed to her with a jesting formality and left their chamber as her maid entered to help her dress.

….

When they rode out of the Hunter's Gate, the grounds outside the walls of Winterfell were still covered with the soft snow that had fallen overnight. Summer snow, the Northmen called it. Their horses' hooves brought up clouds of light powder as they cantered across the fields towards the Wolfswood. Sandor's courser easily took the lead over his daughter's mare but he could not help thinking of his warhorse Stranger whom he missed whenever he rode out for the pleasure of riding, though his prized mount had been dead many years. He looked over at his daughter and admired the sleek, dark mare Stranger had sired as well as his daughter's sure seat and handling of the horse. She caught his glance and smiled, her face flushed with cold and happiness to be out riding with her father.

Catya Clegane had her father's grey eyes and dark hair in her mother's heart-shaped face with the same straight nose, curving cheekbones and finely etched brows, though Catya's were dark against her white skin, like raven's wings.

_Dark wings, dark words_, Sandor thought now, remembering the raven from the Reach. He spurred his horse to a gallop and heard his daughter laugh as she followed and gained on him. He reigned before reaching the tree line: they were not going far today, for he would needs return to instruct his youngest sons and the other young boys. He dismounted and stepped to his daughter to help her down from her saddle.

"Why are we stopping here, Papa?' she asked now.

"I needs speak with you," he answered gruffly, avoiding her eyes as he set her down.

He glanced over towards the great castle of Winterfell which always dominated the landscape, and had for over eight thousand years; though the scars of its rebuilding were still apparent. He suddenly wished that Sansa were with them and considered turning back. But Catya stood still and looked up to him patiently until he looked back at her.

Her eyes were trusting, expectant and then vaguely concerned as he remained silent. He tried to smile reassuringly but failed, and his mouth twitched instead.

"It must be important, Papa," she said.

"It is. There has been a raven from the Reach. Your brother is returning to Winterfell," he began.

"Was he hurt, Papa?" She reached out to put her hand on his arm.

'No, girl," he rasped impatiently, and faltered. _Seven hells._ "Willam's elder brother, Loras Tyrell, has asked for your hand," he told her bluntly. "If we accept, he will travel to Winterfell with Robb."

Sandor saw a tiny start of surprise in her face before she withdrew her hand to clasp both together before her and drop her eyes demurely.

"I will obey your wishes, Papa, whatever they should be."

He reached under her chin firmly and lifted her face to make her look at him.

"Chirping courtesies: you are as much your mother's daughter as you are mine, I see." His mouth twitched again. "I know you are obedient, Catya; I did not bring you here to tell you my wishes but to hear yours. Speak plainly, girl: do you want this? Can you love the boy? One word from you and I'll tell him to stay in the Reach and tend his roses, for he won't have _mine_."

The winter rose, many had begun calling her in recent years: her darker beauty had prompted some to compare her with Lyanna Stark though the resemblance was only slight and there were few alive who actually remembered her great-aunt. Neither Sandor nor Sansa used the name, hoping for a happier fate for their daughter, but they knew she must have heard it in the winter town or from her maids or some fumbling young suitor or other at a feast in the Great Hall.

Sandor looked at her closely, trying to be objective and failing. She was his girl, his and Sansa's and he thought her the most beautiful child in the world but, he had to admit, she was no longer a child. Her long dark braid fell forward over one shoulder, and she had the same long neck, small waist and long legs as her mother. She was not as tall as Sansa and somewhat slighter, a result of being born in winter he surmised, when all were on rations and children were nursed by their mothers for less time than summer children. All this Sansa had explained when he noted their younger sons, born in summer, had seemed to grow hearty faster than their older brothers. But they had no other living girl child. Sansa's last confinement had begun almost two moons too early and the tiny girl had not lived through her first day. It was a loss that Catya had felt almost as deeply as her mother, and Sandor noticed they had grown closer in the ensuing years: the only two Clegane women. His daughter was a woman now; Sansa had been right about that. She needn't marry the Tyrell boy, but marry she would. He felt his chest tighten in apprehension, even as it filled with pride.

_Your own daughter a beauty: how do you like that, dog? Your pups are purebreds, yours and the little bird's._

"Well, my girl: what say you? He's his father's heir, with a decent enough face," he spoke grudgingly, "and he's been knighted…"

Catya looked at him sharply, her brow knitting together in confusion. "You and Mama have taught me how little that means. Her prince was fair of face, and the Mountain was a knight: you would not see me marry such monsters, Papa. You have taught me what matters most in a man, in a person. Loras, _Ser_ Loras Tyrell," she corrected herself, "was more than kind when he came here for Robb and Willam, and respectful and good company. He was…he did not lack for confidence," she smiled a secret smile, "though no more so than most young men," she finished.

Sandor raised his eyebrows at her comments. "Brash and overweening, are we, my girl? You hide your thoughts well. Your mother has raised you to be more like her than I had suspected."

She shook her head slowly now. "But love…" She looked at him searchingly. "How-, how do I know that, Papa?'

He stared at her, at a loss to explain. _How do you know? You know when you live and breathe for her, when you care for her life more than your own, when you know if she were gone there would be a great gaping wound in your heart that will pain you until you die, that is if you can manage to keep living at all._ Sandor had spent years mourning the loss of Sansa Stark and damning himself for his failure to protect her, and still marveled that he had found her again and that she had come to love him. But he could not want such a harsh lesson in life and love for his own daughter. He cleared his throat instead.

"Mayhaps…you should ask your mother," he rasped now.


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa had spent the day as the Lady of Winterfell, presiding over the audience with commons and petitioners in the Great Hall in her lord brother Rickon's absence. When the last had gone away satisfied and the audience was ended, she noticed many of the commons and servants crowding out the doors and hurrying towards the keep. From over the inner wall, she could hear a great commotion in the yard. Perplexed and concerned, she followed to discover the cause.

At the center of a rowdy circle of boys and men-at-arms, she saw her husband, dressed in his mail and his helm and sparring. After he concluded his midday instruction with the young boys of Winterfell, he would frequently take on one of the braver challengers from the garrison. It had been his custom since he had first trained Rickon Stark as a boy, along with some of the many orphans they had sheltered. The Northmen had been suspicious of the former Hound and some had sought in vain to best him at single combat in the practice yard, though they fought alongside him in their true battles outside the walls. Many thought his position as a commander untenable, even his very presence at Winterfell chaffed them; a situation exacerbated by the unshakeable loyalty and, some had whispered, the affection between the former Lannister dog and their lady. Such feelings had long been forgotten after Sandor had earned the trust and loyalty of the Northmen in their sorties against the last of the Bolton and Frey forces, and later against the Others during the longest winter. But after so many years the tradition remained: once Sandor finished with his pupils, his eyes would sweep the crowd of men assembled and he would don his helm if any chanced to step forward.

However he was not taking on one challenger this midday; he was battling three.

Sansa was startled at first to see him wielding his sword on all sides as the men came at him but then her heart pounded more in excitement than fear to see him fend off all their blows and return them with ferocity, yelling savagely as he swung his sword and grunting as steel struck steel with lightning speed and brute force. Despite his untamed show of strength, he displayed surprising agility for his great size, even a powerful grace in his turns and passes. Sansa felt herself captivated and unable to look away, and admired his magnificent prowess and form.

She had seen him fight before of course, but it had been many years since she had witnessed such a show of fierce mastery. She remembered his long-ago vow to protect her, to keep her safe, even at cost to his own life: it had not been given lightly and she knew how many times he had been called to defend her and her family's claim, to fight for the North. She had been humbled and grateful, and she had loved him for it, and for so much more. She felt her heart fill now and then her face flush.

_My lord, my non-ser._

The cheering and shouts grew louder as Sandor disarmed one of his opponents and then the other before the last yielded with some alarm as he saw Sandor turn on him headlong with a roaring bellow. The shouts from the young boys and men were deafening and there were many hearty slaps on the back and handshakes. Sansa saw his squire step forward to take his sword as others helped the two defeated men up from the dirt. She approached him as he removed his helm.

"My lady," he addressed her, exhaling heavily.

"My lord…" she began with a gentle smile.

"I didn't kill anyone," he remarked gruffly, "as you requested."

"No, my lord," she put her hand gently on his gauntleted hand and held his gaze as she spoke warmly, "and you were _splendid_."

He looked her over now and bowed his head to her compliment. He took a step closer and bent down to speak softly to her.

"A cup of wine together before we dress for the hall, my lady?"

Sansa blushed, and bit her lip as she nodded.

….

They came together as soon as he closed their chamber door behind them, their hands searching and their mouths meeting hungrily. Sansa nearly tore at her husband's mail as he panted with laughter and desire.

"I see my exertions were only just beginning," he rasped mockingly. "It seems you will be the one to defeat me, little bird."

"It's not your sword I am desirous to have you wield, _my lord_," she challenged slyly, "nor do I wish for you to fight me off."

Sandor threw back his head and roared. "You're as randy as a wench with a stable boy. Very well, I yield: come ride me, girl. I may even beg mercy."

With that he slung his arm under her bottom and lifted her easily. We walked to the bed where he turned and fell on his back, bringing her down on top of him. Sansa reached under her skirts to slip off her smallclothes before straddling him and pulling at the laces of his breeches as Sandor struggled to pull his clinging, sweat-drenched tunic over his head.

"_Fuck_, girl, I'm stuck," his muffled voice came from under his tunic. "Stop that and help me…_gods!_"

With one sweet, slow movement she had lowered herself onto his hard member, gasping as she threw her head back in ecstasy. She breathed deeply and opened her eyes again as she leaned forward, running her hands over his heavily muscled abdomen and chest before helping him off with his tunic. As soon as he was free, Sandor sat up to take her in his arms. She could feel both their hearts pounding.

"You're shameless, little bird," he rasped hoarsely, his lips brushing hers.

"Hm," she breathed as she began to rock her hips slowly. "Lie back now, my love: you've yielded," she bit his lower lip and dragged her teeth away, "but know that I will show you no mercy."

He lay back, gazing up at her with heavy-lidded eyes as she raised and lowered herself on him languidly. Sandor loved to watch her when they lay together, not just because he loved having her but because he knew that only he would ever see this side of her, the sensual, near-wanton fire beneath her measured words and gentle courtesies. Only he would ever hear such sly teasing in her soft voice.

A deep rumbling grunt of pleasure came from his throat as he saw her blue eyes darken with desire and her full pink lips tremble with heavy breaths. He thought back to how delicate she had been when they were newly lovers, even though she had wanted to lay with him. Her smiles were shy, her eyes downcast and her kisses and her touch were light and tentative. He had held himself back, he had not wanted to frighten or harm her and he tried to understand her uncertainly with the intimacies they were sharing. But he wanted her to feel what he felt, to feel the depth of the passion he was trying to keep under control, though it had threatened to consume him.

Finally he had resorted to making her laugh. He had whined like a puppy in the soft shell of her ears, panted like a hound over her warm neck and growled between her teats, making her squirm and sputter with giggles. Enraptured by even this small abandon on her part he had trailed hot kisses on her belly and thighs until he felt her writhe and heard her breath come in shivery pants. When he looked up he saw her eyes were closed and so he settled himself on her and gently pushed her hair back from her flushed face.

When she opened her eyes, he saw their black centers widen suddenly and their deep blue darken like a night sky.

"Do you know what dogs do to wolves?" he had murmured.

She had wrapped her supple arms and legs around him surely and caressingly, naked hunger in her face and her shyness forgotten, and whispered her reply close to his lips: "Yes."

Now she could have him on his back, teasing him and making him laugh and showing him what wolves could do to dogs. He watched her eyelids flutter now and her breath come ragged as she moved faster, reveling in her pleasure and his. He grit his teeth and felt his peak nearing and so he reached to touch her face and she leaned over close to him, her eyes never leaving his: those beautiful Tully blue eyes, an she smiled dreamily as he raised his head nearer.

"Sing for me," he rasped low, "little bird."


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa entered the Great Hall in her husband's arm, smiling and dressed in a pale yellow gown bordered with delicate black embroidery to honour his house colours. Sandor wore a black tunic over black trousers and boots, and a brown leather belt hand-tooled with images of running dogs and direwolves. Since there were no guests in Winterfell and their lord Rickon Stark and his family were absent, they chose to forgo having a high table and instead sat with their children at the end of a trestle table near one of the hearths. Before the food was served, Sandor rose and held up his hand for everyone's attention and nodded to the maester to step forward. The man rose and spoke solemnly:

"Some of you may already know that a raven arrived this turn from the citadel announcing the end of summer. We must all therefore be prepared to make the most of our last harvests and to set aside as much as possible for the winter stores. We must all remember our lord's family words: winter is coming. There will soon be rationing to see us through until Spring. I will have more to say about this when I have consulted with Lord Stark on his return."

"On a less somber note, we have had another raven from the Reach announcing that Lord and Lady Clegane's son Robb will be returning to us before long. I offer a toast to his safe voyage home."

Everyone raised their goblets and tankards amid cheers and calls of "safe voyage" and "may the Old Gods protect him". Sandor nodded in acknowledgment of their good wishes and Sansa smiled graciously. The servants began setting platters at each table and the hall soon filled with talk and laughter.

"Has Robb sailed already, Father?" their eldest Ned asked now.

"Not yet, Ned; there are matters to settle before he returns." He spoke with finality and tucked into his meat hungrily.

"Will we have a feast when he returns, Papa?" Benjen asked his father. Benjen was their fifth and youngest child, named for the ancient Stark king Benjen the Sweet who was buried in the crypt beneath Winterfell.

"Would you like that?" Sandor asked his five-year-old son. "Your uncle Rickon will decide. He is lord here, not me: remember that."

Ned sat up straighter and addressed his father again. "Will Greywind Keep be garrisoned this winter, Father?"

Sandor paused before answering. Greywind Keep was what he and Sansa had renamed the ruined Dreadfort when Rickon had bestowed the keep and lands to Sandor for his service during the wars, raising him to lordship They had named it after her brother Robb's direwolf to honour the memory of the young King in the North. Restoring the keep had been postponed until Rickon reached his majority though he had asked Sandor and Sansa to stay on at Winterfell even after he married and started his own family. The young lord hated to be separated from his family after having lost his parents and oldest brother and been torn apart from his remaining siblings during the war. Nevertheless, after Rickon's first son was born, Sandor had ordered plans be drawn up for the rebuilding of Greywind Keep and work had begun slowly over the previous years. There were stables, a working kitchen, a forge for the builders and a hall finished. The patrols that he frequently sent through his lands could now stop and camp in the few buildings before returning to Winterfell.

"If there are stores enough to feed them," Sandor replied thoughtfully, "and the maester there now with the builders and soldiers will agree to stay on. It would be less dangerous to send patrols from a nearby encampment than all the way from Winterfell. Why do you ask?" He questioned his son though he knew that Ned, as his heir, had always been interested in their holdings.

"I-I would like to go with them, Father, and…command the garrison."

Sandor raised his heavy brow in surprise but Sansa dropped her knife as her hand flew to her mouth in shock.

"You would leave us in winter, Ned? But why?" She pleaded.

"Robb will be back and can see to my duties here," he replied dismissively before turning again to his father. "I can do this, Father: I'm ready," he told him with conviction.

Sandor eyed him steadily before answering. "We'll talk about this again. Once we know for certain there will be a garrison installed, we can decide then." When he saw Sansa looking at him with her big eyes he changed the subject. "Catya, you're not eating," he remarked firmly, "did you not hear we will be on rations soon? Don't waste what's on your plate, girl."

"Yes, Papa," she replied quietly; then she raised her eyes and looked around the table at her parents and brothers. "There have been many surprises today," she remarked absently before settling into an awkward silence.

"Why is everyone quiet, Mama?" Benjen asked now from across the table.

"Everyone is fine, my sweet Benjen," she reassured him. She made herself smile and her son smiled back at her. "Did you enjoy your father's sparring today?" she asked him.

"Likely not in the same way you did," Sandor murmured to her as he reached for his wine, and she nudged his knee under the table.

Her youngest now happily began telling of his training and of his father's fighting; and yet Sansa felt strained to observe the rest of her family. Her daughter was withdrawn and her eldest son was brooding while Sandor was tense and so he and their son Bryden, who has just celebrated his eight name day, kept their heads down and concentrated on cleaning their plates before helping themselves to more bread and meat. She almost felt that she was pretending to be happy: a once too-familiar feeling that unsettled her.

_What is happening to my family?_

….

Sandor stood by the hearth in their chamber, looking down as Sansa embroidered a running dog on a tunic for their son Bryden.

"Always busy with a dog, little bird," he remarked with an affectionate tone.

Sansa smiled. "Best that I practice, my love, I may needs stitch a maiden's cloak for our daughter soon. Shall we make the Clegane sigil of three dogs, or our combined house sigil of dog and direwolf quartered?"

Sandor saw that despite her light words, she held herself rigidly and pulled tightly on her needle so that the thread finally snapped. She sighed resignedly.

"Let us wait to see if we need one before we decide," he told her as he squeezed her shoulder, "though I believe our children should wear the quartered sigil. They are as much Stark as Clegane."

"Mama? Papa? Shall I come in?" Their daughter stood at the door they had left open for her.

"Come sit, girl," Sandor nodded to the footstool before Sansa and Catya lowered herself gracefully with her hands in her lap. She smoothed the folds in her grey gown and raised her eyes uncertainly.

"Your father has told you about the offer of marriage to Loras Tyrell: tell me Catya, do you feel you are prepared for marriage?" Sansa prompted her.

"I believe so, Mama: I have studied with the maester and have tried to help and learn how the household is run…" she ventured.

"Yes, Catya, and you have learned songs and dancing and embroidery, and your father has taught you riding and how to use a bow-"

"And a dagger," Sandor added bluntly.

"Yes," Sansa acknowledged, "we have seen to your education but in your heart, are you prepared to be married? It is not just a romance to live together day-to-day: there is duty and even hard work in marriage; and as much as you may learn to love someone you must also learn to…tolerate and accept differences. You will have children, and you may live far away from us, my sweet girl-" Her voice broke faintly and she tried to smile. "But we would not be too unhappy to know that you would be happy with your lord husband. Young Loras: did you like him?"

"He treated everyone kindly," Catya began hesitantly. "The guards and chaperones who rode out with us; and everyone in the hall…He was respectful to you and Papa; and the boys all liked him. Willam always spoke well of him before he came." She paused again. "How do I know about love, Mama?"

Sansa sighed. "Many do not love until after they are married," she told her daughter. "My own parents did not meet until they were betrothed, and they wed for promise and duty. But they did love each other, and their family,' she spoke warmly, "though they were very different, as are your father and I; but we had time to learn to love each other, even before we were married," she flushed slightly, knowing that she had been carrying Catya inside her when she and Sandor were wed.

"You say you found Loras kind and respectful: these are good things, the important things. And we know his parents are also kind and honourable. Did he show you any particular kindness, Catya?" she asked her gently. "He danced many times with you at the farewell feast."

Catya looked down at her hands and wrung them together as her face flushed. "Loras, he, he-" she stammered.

"He _wha_t, girl?" Sandor demanded. "Did he try to take liberties with you when he was our guest?" His voice rose angrily.

"No, Papa! He was kind and…and sweet: he, he asked me to tell him about Winterfell, and the Wolfswood when we were all out riding, and about the Old Gods in the G-godswood. He held my hand there and said he would remember me best of all he had met and seen in the North, and he prayed that I should remember him fondly too. He k-kissed my hand, and gave me this token."

She had slipped her hand into her pocket and now shakily held it out to her mother. Sansa reached for it curiously and recognized the rose-gold emblem of Loras' house. She turned it over and saw it was to fasten a cloak or shawl.

"The Tyrell rose," she remarked with an absent smile, and then she looked at their daughter again with sudden, wide-eyed realization. She saw the pink roses embroidered on the bodice and sleeves of her gown, remembered the yellow roses with green leaves she had embroidered on her linens and the red roses she was stitching on the border of her woolen blanket.

"_Catya_," she breathed, "you _do_ care for him."

"Do I?" Catya asked with a quavering voice. "Mayhaps I was just young and foolish, and still am. What if I am wrong, as you were about…your first betrothed, Mama? How can I be certain?"

Sansa tensed involuntarily at the mention of long-dead Joffrey Bratheon and caught her breath. "He was not kind, nor was his mother: it was clear for all to see but I would not see it. I pray that you do not let my ordeals as a girl frighten you away from marriage and love, Catya. You have spoken of Loras' kindness, and we have all seen the same in him and his family. I do not think we have reason to doubt him."

"But," her chin quivered now and her eyes filled with tears, "what if I go to live far away and I never see you and Papa or my brothers or Winterfell again?"

"Oh, my sweet girl," Sansa held out her arms and her daughter kneeled before her now, wrapped in her embrace as she stroked her hair. "My sweet, sweet girl: I'm afraid the things you fear can happen if you stay here as well. Separation, loss: these are part of life and will come to you no matter the choices you make; but happiness must be sought, you must work for it and even risk for it." She glanced up at Sandor who was watching helplessly as his daughter struggled to decide the course of her life. Sansa sat back and took Catya's face in her hands gently. "Will you seek your own happiness, my Catya, even if it takes you far from us? Shall we accept this betrothal for you?"

Catya straightened her shoulders and almost nodded but then looked up to her father, her eyes wet and appealing, and bit her lip in trepidation. "P-papa?"

Sandor stood rooted; then gave a curt nod as he held out his arms. Catya rushed to him and clung to him tightly, trying to curtail her sniffles and sobs as the gravity of her decision weighted on her. Sansa was also torn with happiness and loss, but mostly she saw the pain in her husband's eyes, and knew his heart was breaking. He held his daughter in his big strong arms, close to his heart, as he struggled and willed himself to let her go.

"That's my girl," he rasped and kissed her head. "That's my brave, beautiful girl."


	5. Chapter 5

Sandor sat in the darkened solar, slumped in the large high-backed chair that had been built for him, for his large frame and long legs. It was padded with worn leather and draped with a fur and had a gold velvet cushion Sansa had embroidered with his sigil. He had sat here countless times with the little bird, while she did her needlework and her belly swelled with their pups. He'd held them in his lap and bounced them on his knee, neighing like Stranger while they hung on to his large hands and gurgled and laughed and even spat up all over him or shat their bottom-wraps. Sansa had always jumped up to take them away, murmuring apologies to him.

"Seven hells, little bird, I've fought battles full of blood with hacked limbs and horse shit underfoot. Do you truly believe I'm unmanned by puked porridge?"

Later they had played on the floor, Catya with her dollies and the boys with carved wooden animals and then soldiers and swords. They had also wanted songs from Sansa and then stories from Sandor and their uncle Rickon.

He had let the nurses and maids and Sansa take care of them as was proper but when possible, he held them in his arms or his lap and marveled that he and Sansa had made children. He secretly delighted in their round eyes and innocent smiles and chubby hands that reached out to tug his hair and grab his nose and even rub his scarred face. They didn't care that he was scarred. To them he was never the Hound; he was only their Papa.

"Papa Dog," he rasped dispiritedly, as he poured from the flagon he held in one hand into the goblet he held in the other.

"Clegane," came the smokey voice of the Blackfish in the dark.

"What do you want? You want to laugh at me again?" he sneered as he heard booted footsteps entering the solar. He didn't bother looking up, intent as he was on the sour red. "Well, bugger yourself off then: I am swimming on my own as _Lord_ Clegane," he sneered.

There was a sharp snap and crackle of sparks as more logs were thrown on the dying hearth fire. Sandor winced at the brighter light and the smell of smoke in the room.

"Swimming or drowning, my lord?" the Blackfish asked archly. "Is there more of that?" he wondered aloud, looking toward the side table.

"Not yet sated tonight, Blackfish?" Sandor questioned insinuatingly. It was well-known but never spoken of that, when at Winterfell, Bryden Tully occasionally spent his evenings in the company of a widow in the winter town. She and her daughters sold bread and biscuits and meat pies from the shop that had been her late husband's. She was still a comely woman and good-natured and her discretion and the general respect for the Blackfish protected her from ugly gossip. Nevertheless, it was known.

"They don't have such fine wines in the winter town," the Blackfish replied, ignoring Sandor's provoking comment.

Sandor scoffed. "Brought by the _Tyrells _when they left me their whelp to ward; mayhaps I should ask them to bring me double rations when they come to take my daughter away."

"It has been decided then?" he asked quietly, and sighed. "Not a bad match for her, if you'll permit me to say so; and a good one for him. She's strong and bright and pretty: you and Sansa have given her good bloodlines and an excellent upbringing-"

"All to give her away," Sandor shook his head and drank again.

"That is the usual course of matters with maidens," the Blackfish replied smoothly. "Of course I know little of all this myself."

"A wise choice," Sandor replied bitterly.

"For me, yes: I would have made a poor husband and father…unlike you, Clegane."

Sandor turned his head to look at him now.

"Ned Stark was an honourable man, and a good husband and father, but a poor politician: he never stood a chance against the Lannisters and Littlefinger. You've an honest kind of honour all your own, based on truth and experience: you can spot a liar and a fool, and you've raised good men on their merits instead of their births. You belong here in the North. And you've protected Sansa: you brought her back here and kept her safe and gave her the love and the family she wanted. She's my niece's child; I couldn't save Cat but you've been good to her daughter and all the Starks and that is good enough for me, Clegane."

"Thank you, Blackfish," Sandor mumbled after a pause. "Here, have some wine." He held the flagon out to him.

The man took the flagon and poured himself a goblet and raised it to Sandor. "To Catya and Loras then."

….

After some time sitting without speaking, the silence was broken by the sound of stealthy footsteps in the hall. Both men sat up and Bryden Tully even put his hand over his dagger, until Ned Clegane appeared in the doorway, still in his doublet, boots and cloak.

"Ned," Sandor remarked, puzzled. "What are you doing? Where were you?"

"Outside, Father," he replied. He had grown taller in the last year and his auburn hair had darkened, but he had the Tully blue eyes of his mother under Sandor's heavy brow.

"Outside the walls?" Sandor asked gruffly.

Ned hesitated. "Yes, Father."

"You're being careful," his father intoned seriously, "as I taught you?"

Ned nodded uncomfortably and his ears turned dark red.

"Good, I don't want any wenches holding out their crying bastards to your mother as she walks through the winter town. Spill your seed on their bellies; not inside them." His son's whole face turned red now as he spoke to him but he did not look away.

The Blackfish snorted laughter though he nodded approvingly. "Sound advice for a boy of four-and-ten; better than my father told me, or Hoster taught Edmure. Though I had always fancied older women as a lad, so there was less risk of-." He stopped talking suddenly and cleared his throat, as he spied movement in the hallway from shadows on the wall.

"Sandor; Great-uncle Brynden," Sansa walked in to the now cozily-lit solar dressed in a fur-trimmed robe over her bedgown. Her long hair hung loose over her shoulders. "Ned, what-"

"We were in the winter town," the Blackfish covered for him smoothly. Sandor spoke before she could ask another question.

"What are you doing out of bed, little bird?"

"I couldn't sleep; and you weren't there," she answered softly.

"I was having a drink to celebrate my only daughter's betrothal," he told her dully.

Ned looked from his father to his mother and back again. "Catya's betrothed? To whom?"

"Ser Loras Tyrell, Ned. He will be coming to Winterfell with Robb, and some if not all of his family."

"She'll leave Winterfell, and go south like Robb," he mumbled enviously, "but you won't let me go to Greywind Keep."

"We haven't decided, Ned," Sandor said wearily. "Seven hells, you don't plan a winter garrison on a bloody whim."

"Why are you so eager to leave us, Ned?" Sansa asked sadly as she reached her hand towards him. "It will be dangerous, and so cold: you cannot remember what winter is like, you were so young…"

"_Winter is coming_; aren't those your father's words? We're supposed to prepare for winter, and Greywind Keep is ours: I should be responsible for defending it:"

"There's hardly no keep to defend, boy; it's still in ruins," Sandor huffed dismissively.

"It should have been rebuilt long ago," he insisted stubbornly. "Cousin Sandor will inherit Winterfell, and I'll inherit a ruin-"

"Ned!" Sansa was shocked by his petulance.

Sandor stood up, setting the wine flagon down with a bang, instantly alert and angry. "It was ruined in _war_, boy; and commons were starving when it was over. I was not going to tax them to rebuild a bloody, hated place for an up-jumped lord who was not even of the North! They deserved a respite; that's what a _real_ lord considers for his commonfolk! And you dare disrespect me-"

"I want to _be_ like you," Ned blurted passionately, "and make my own way and be respected; but you won't _let_ me!" He turned away suddenly, red-faced and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Without turning back, he stormed out of the solar.

"Ned!" Sansa called after him. She turned to look at Sandor, who stood rooted and helpless for the second time that evening.

"Let me talk with him," the Blackfish murmured, and took the flagon of wine. When he left, Sandor looked at Sansa.

"My daughter, now my son-" he rasped, bewildered.

Sansa moved quickly to him and took his face in her hands firmly, and caressingly. "Hush, my love; come to bed," she told him in soothing tones, though she felt as confused and dispirited as her husband. "We will speak with him in the morning. Great-uncle Brynden will see that he does nothing rash tonight." She clutched at the arms his tunic and tugged him towards her.

"Come," she whispered again. "I'll never leave you, Sandor."


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa woke with a start from a fitful sleep, momentarily disoriented by the feeling of an empty space next to her in the dark. She reached her hand out and touched nothing but rumpled linens and so sat up with a slight gasp.

She saw him at the window then, where the faint light from the moon framed his hulking silhouette and showed the outline of his muscles in sharp relief. It almost startled her sometimes, to see all at once how very big and strong he was, from the enormously broad and strapping shoulders to the sturdy long legs. She had seen horseflesh with less impressive power sheathed beneath their skin. But she did not think he was feeling strong right now. He had turned away from her in their bed when they retired, and when she had not heard his breaths come deep and evenly as they usually did , she had known that he was lying awake in the dark, his mind worrying and his heart heavy.

"Sandor?" she called softly to him now. "My love, come back to bed, I beg you."

She thought she saw him sigh imperceptibly.

"No." There was no rancor or even sullenness in his reply, only resignation.

Sansa rose and donned her robe against the chill. Sandor was naked; he never resorted to bedclothes until the deepest winter and even then mocked himself for wearing a woolen gown like a crone. Still, she paused to stoke the fire in the hearth and add some of the thick, sawed branches from the basket nearby before she went to stand by him.

"Go back to bed, little bird," he rasped without looking at her.

"No. I want to be with you, Sandor."

He huffed. "I still cannot understand why," he mocked self-deprecatingly. Even in the pale moonlight, she noted the strands of grey in his dark hair. He had passed forty years already, older than her late father had been when they had taken his head; and yet he seemed as virile and alive as he had been when she had known him as a girl, if not more so since he had stopped drinking as heavily as he had in King's Landing and had become, in his words, "his own dog."

"Because I love you," she replied simply. "As do Catya and Ned; but Catya is a young woman, and Ned wants to be man."

"He wants to be like me," Sandor said in disbelief, "to make his own way and be respected, he said. Seven hells, little bird, I had to make my own way or die, and I was feared; never respected. He _knows_ that. I tried to give him everything I didn't have," he told her, pain in his voice, "so he wouldn't have to be like me."

She reached her hand out to his shoulder and drew it caressingly down his arm before she rested her cheek on his bulging bicep, crossed with scars and raised veins, and laced her fingers through his. She had not seen him this unsure in many years, since he had raged furiously at his sons for fighting over a toy; the memory of his brutal brother Gregor and his unhappy childhood had undermined his confidence to be a good father. They had decided to share some of their difficult experiences with Catya, Ned and Robb, then very young children, so that they would understand that there was evil in the world, and that they needed to count on each other as family. Sansa saw now how her tales of Joffrey's cruelty had made Catya wary of trusting her heart. And Ned, young Ned had been flushed with pride and excitement to hear how Sandor had left home as a boy to be a squire and fight in battles and she feared that he failed to grasp the anger and loneliness that had driven his father's young life and gained him his fierce reputation as the Hound.

"It is the man you are now that he wants to be like, Sandor," she told him nevertheless. "You are just as fierce a warrior as you have always been; and you _are_ respected, my love, as a lord and as master-at-arms and as a father to our children…but some of them are not children anymore," she finished sadly. They were her children too, after all.

"Should I have taken the Dreadfort then, little bird? Rebuilt the keep and made myself a _true_ lord?" he mocked.

"We were needed here, at Winterfell; we could not have left Rickon to servants and the maester and mayhaps some guardians. We could not have left him without family, Sandor, he was so young and wild and _angry_ but he admired you so much and wanted you for his brother," she smiled tenderly to remember. "He would not be the man he is today without you, you know that well, Sandor; he even named his first-born son for you."

"Aye, little Sandy, who'll have all of Winterfell, while my heir laments he's left a pile of rubble without servants or stores…"

"Greywind Keep is being rebuilt," she stated firmly. "Ned will have his holdings as lord someday. But let him learn his responsibilities as well, and his duties to his people and to honour his father as he should-" she stopped herself. She had not meant to become angry.

"Forgive me, Sandor. I am afraid for him: to be there with only a garrison in winter. Won't it be dangerous?"

Sandor nodded now. "It could be. In the dark and cold, men will get bored or mean and they'll fight: over a blanket, over rations, over a wench…and the commons may come, seeking shelter or stores, or justice if there's trouble. Mayhaps if I had rebuilt long ago…but I thought there was time; it's gone so fast, little bird, and…I never cared about being a lord," he turned to look at her now, looking sad and rueful. "Bugger land and laws and harvests…it's you I wanted, little bird; I took the lordship so I could have you." He took her face in his hands and lowered his head so that their foreheads touched. "I had pledged to bring you home, and even though times were hard, you were so happy to be here that I could not think to take you away again."

Sansa put her hands over his and looked into his eyes, her heart filling with love for him to think of all he had sacrificed for her.

"My love, you have made me so very happy; and you are right: I never wanted to leave Winterfell again but I would have gone anywhere to be with you, to be yours. I've told you before, Sandor: home is in your arms." With that assurance, she raised herself on tiptoe to kiss him gently and lingeringly before pulling him to her and resting his head on her shoulder. Sandor wrapped big warm hands around her waist and exhaled deeply, blowing hot breath down the neck of her robe against her skin and making her shiver.

"That does not change what I have done, little bird; or what I have failed to do. Because I did not want to be a lord, I have left my son's future uncertain. I could not ask him to do what I would not and yet he is destined to be lord of Greywind. Who will teach him if not his own father? I will not fail him as…" He took another deep breath.

_As your father failed you_, Sansa thought distressingly, and she stroked his hair to comfort him.

"I will not fail him, or any of my children," he finished decisively.

Sansa shook her head. "You have neglected nothing, my love: have you not taught him everything you know?"

He raised his head now and looked down at her determinedly. "I have," he rasped shortly, "but now mayhaps it is time for this old dog to learn to be a lord."


	7. Chapter 7

After the maester left their chamber with instructions to send a raven to the Reach accepting Ser Loras' proposal, Sansa sent her maid away so that she could speak freely with Sandor.

He grunted as he reached down for his boots and his eyes squinted from fatigue after his sleepless night. Sansa suspected his men would have a difficult time of training this morning with such a grumpy master-at-arms. She reminded herself now to keep her younger children out of the yard: Sandor was bound to be more loudly profane if he were impatient.

"Catya will still be married from Winterfell, will she not, Sandor?" she asked him tentatively. "It is the only home she has ever known and Greywind Keep is in no state to received guests."

He looked at her now, his brow furrowed in confusion, and she wondered if he remembered his pledge last night to become lord of his holdings for the sake of his son. He opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by a knock at their chamber door.

"Buggering hells," he swore softly. "Come in," he called now.

They waited as the door creaked open slowly and Ned stepped in. He looked drawn and apprehensive but he swallowed and spoke firmly.

"I've come to apologize Father, and Mother, for my outburst last night. I meant no disrespect to you, Father, and I never could: I owe you everything. I-I only want to make you proud of me," he ducked his head now.

Sansa looked to Sandor and spoke for both of them. "Oh, Ned, we have never been anything but proud of you, as we are now-"

He shook his head. "I was wrong though: I am not ready. What you told me about the commonfolk, Papa; I had not thought of that. I only thought of commanding a garrison and living in our keep. But there is much more required of a lord or his son; Great-uncle Blackfish told me, and I am not prepared-"

"Sit down, Ned," Sandor ordered him gruffly.

Ned hesitated, and then sat on Sansa's footstool facing his father, his head bowed penitently.

"If you are not prepared it is because I have not prepared you," Sandor began, and Ned looked up surprised. "Oh, you've had your lessons with the maester and your training with me but as you have discovered there is much more required. Well, now you are going to learn, and I am going to learn with you. I never cared much to be a lord but I will learn so that I can understand and advise you…or mayhaps you will be able to advise me," he huffed a short laugh before continuing.

"Your mother sits the high seat until your uncle returns. You will sit with her and learn to hold audiences and hear petitioners. I will join you when I can and in the evenings we will discuss what we have learned with your mother and the maester. When he has time, we will go over ledgers and accounts with him. I was good at figures as a boy…better than your mother was, I have heard; and we will learn how they are kept and what they mean. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Father, I-"

"There is more. You will leave with the next patrol to our lands as squire to their leader. You will watch and learn and you may ask him questions but never in front others, is that understood? You will not appear to undermine his authority in front of his men, and you will obey him at all times. Being a little lordling does not allow you to act like a little shit, so _don't_."

"Thank you, Father-"

"Don't thank me yet, I'm not done. When your sister is wed, you and I will ride to Greywind Keep and see what needs to be done and what supplies will be necessary for winter. We will only garrison there if we can do so without great risk to our men or great loss to Winterfell. We cannot stretch ourselves and our rations too thin in winter, else we'll have two cold and starving keeps instead of one sound one."

"Finally, if there is a garrison…you will not command it," he intoned seeing his son's eyes drop in disappointment. "I will need a seasoned commander to lead a winter garrison, a man who will be respected and obeyed based on his experience which, my son, you will not have, not by then."

Ned nodded bravely and raised his eyes to Sandor's. "Yes, Father, I understand."

"If you should still want to go and be part of the garrison, we will talk about it then. One last thing, Ned: when your brother and the Tyrells land at Deepwood Motte, you will be the one there to meet them and lead the honor guard back to Winterfell. Do you have any questions?"

'No, Father," he almost stammered, pleased by the honour of representing his family. "Thank you, Father."

He stood then and Sandor stood with him and stepped to embrace his son.

"I'm already proud of you, Ned," he bent and rasped closely to him. "I've given you a lot to learn; so study hard and work hard, like I know you can, hm?"

"I won't disappoint you, Father; I promise."

Sandor raised his head again and looked down to him. "You'll make a fine Lord Clegane, Ned."

Ned blushed and ducked his head again, then smiled to his mother before hurrying out.

Sansa waited for him to leave and again questioned Sandor.

"I don't understand, my love; if Greywind is garrisoned, won't we all be going to winter there? I thought you had decided to be lord of the keep."

"I decided to learn to be a lord, little bird; but I will never be lord of Greywind Keep," he told her now. "If Ned learns enough and is ready then he will go as acting lord in my stead, not as commander."

Sansa stared at him, astonished. "But-" she began.

"But I did not tell him that," he finished for her, "nor will I. I told you a garrison can be dangerous and that stores may be inadequate. Best let him think of the long term now; so that if I decide it is best not to send him he will not think he has disappointed us. If he fails at his tasks, he'll be told; but he won't fail, Sansa. I know he won't. It matters too much to him."

"Then, we are not going-"

Sandor took her chin in his large hand, and his mouth twitched as he gazed at her. "I promised to bring you to Winterfell, little bird, and here you'll stay, and me with you. Let Ned be a lord; seven hells, even if I study, and I will, I'll never care enough to be good at it. Commons deserve a good lord, and our son will be a good lord. But I'm a fighter; I have been for so long that I don't know how to be anything else. I'll live out my days here as master-at-arms and commander of the garrison at Winterfell. This is our home, little bird."

Sansa dropped her eyes now and nodded absently and Sandor was perplexed. He had expected her to be happy.

"What is wrong, little bird?" he rasped. "I'll be buggered if I thought you wanted to go to Greywind in winter and suffer like we did when we first lived here-"

She snorted a slight laugh even as a single tear rolled down her smooth pale cheek.

"Gods," she remarked quaveringly, "not again. But…" She looked up at him now, disconsolate. "I thought at least…we would all remain together for some time to come, instead of having him leave us."

Sandor wrapped her in his arms and she nestled closely. "Don't fret yet, little bird; it may not even happen-"

There was another knock, more firm and assured than the last.

"Bloody hells, what it is now?" Sandor rasped. "Come!"

"Forgive me," came the voice of the Blackfish, "we'll talk later."

"Bugger that, Blackfish: come in," he said and let go of Sansa.

"Good morning, Great-uncle Brynden," she smiled for him.

He looked tenderly on her; he admired her gentleness in all she had endured and wanted her to be happy.

"Thank you for speaking with Ned," she told him now, "he came to apologize to Sandor this morning. He seems more amenable to coming into his responsibilities in due course, with proper instruction."

"He's a good boy, though not a boy for much longer. Your brother was nigh king by his age, and Jon was with the Night's Watch."

"I remember, Great-uncle," she said softly, "that is the problem."

He saw her eyes were filled with sadness, and he moved to put his hands on her shoulders and speak closely to her.

"I know what you've lost, Sansa; believe me I know. But you can't keep them here, you can't hold them back: they'll turn out all wrong. Gods, look at Edmure; or worse, how that Lannister woman tried to control her bastards," he sneered with contempt. "You've taught them well, you and Sandor: now you have to start letting them go," he finished in his smokey voice, low and reassuring.

Sandor sighed. "He's right, little bird."

"I know," she whispered, turning to him, "but I'm afraid."

Sandor wanted to tell her all would be well but he knew that was not always true, not after everything they had been through and everything she had lost.

"I know," was all he told her.


	8. Chapter 8

Preparations for the wedding and the arrival of the Tyrells became the preoccupation of most of Winterfell, if not the winter town as well. Orders were placed for new clothes and all repairs were made to rooms and furnishings to accommodate guests and food was stockpiled in anticipation of welcoming and wedding and farewell feasts. Sansa was pleased to have her goodsister Ayme, the lady of Winterfell, helping and encouraging her but she also feared they were stretching the castle's resources in light of the oncoming winter.

"Rickon wants the best for Catya, Sansa, you must know that," she reassured her; then she giggled. "And I confess I want to put on a good show for those Southron nobles as well. One always hears how the Reach is the seat of chivalry in Westeros. We may not have their fine weather or beautiful gardens of bountiful fruits or their famed Arbor wines…" she trailed off, her brow furrowing. "Oh, dear: what was my point?"

Instead she prattled on about her family's visit to her mother's keep at Poole. Ayme was the youngest daughter and her older sister's husband stood to inherit once their mother passed, and Ayme feared that her sister Jeyne would then no longer be welcome in her own childhood home.

"He gets so irritated with her, Sansa, and complains to the servants that they are harboring a wretched ghost. But poor Jeyne cannot bear to leave Poole: she has not been outside the walls since she returned at war's end. Rickon has promised that she would be welcome at Winterfell but I fear for her mind if she returns here, Sansa," she told her, looking around at the long-restored walls with foreboding.

Sansa knew of her friend Jeyne's torment as "Arya Stark" when she was forced to impersonate her sister and to wed the Bolton bastard to cement his claim to Winterfell under the Lannisters. Her fear and pain had been such that she had never truly recovered, remaining frail and nervous. Sandor had confessed to her how she had cowered to see him again years ago when he traveled to Poole with Rickon when Rickon had claimed Ayme for his bride. Jeyne had been convinced the Lannisters had sent him for her and had become wild and terrified.

"He broke down my door with a _war hammer_!" she'd screamed and then cried for her father, who'd been killed in the purging of the Tower of the Hand when Ned Stark was arrested for treason, an attack personally led by Sandor. Though he had once defiantly withstood all the accusations and hostility from fighting men over his past life, the hysterical tears of a broken once-girl had struck him with guilt and shame. Sandor had left in the night to return to Winterfell and Sansa had been surprised and alarmed to find him in the nursery at first light days later, mud-spattered from his ride and holding baby Brynden tightly to him and refusing to speak. In time she had understood that he had needed to remind himself that he was no longer the Hound.

"I'm afraid you are right, Ayme: Jeyne could never live in Winterfell," she said carefully. "Mayhaps the Mormont women would have her at Bear Island? It is a rustic place but the isolation may make her feel safe. Let me put it to them when they come for the wedding." Catya was a favourite of the Mormont girls and women, and had been a guest at Bear Island in the early summer where her riding and martial skills, taught by her father, had been greatly appreciated and encouraged. She'd even learned to throw an axe, impressing her brothers when she had returned, though Sansa rather hoped she would never have call to throw an axe in the Reach.

That night she brushed Catya's hair in her daughter's chamber, smiling to remember her own mother and hoping Catya would remember her with the same fondness. She glanced around the warm room full of memories of her childhood, and wondered how she would hold up once her daughter was gone. She decided not to think that far ahead and to put on a brave face.

"It won't be long now," she ventured. "Is there anything you would like to talk about before we haven't a moment to ourselves again?"

"I-I cannot, I cannot believe I will see Loras again after so long and that…we will be married," she breathed. "What if, what if he sees me and does not want me anymore?"

"Nonsense," Sansa scolded mildly. 'You had only just flowered when he saw you last, now you are lovelier than ever: more woman than girl. And this time he will kiss you for real," she teased her.

Catya looked up, startled, and blushed deeply.

"Or mayhaps he already has?" Sansa questioned.

"Just once, I promise. Don't tell Papa," she begged, "please don't tell him that I lied."

"Hush now, I won't tell him," she soothed her, and smiled secretly.

"He would call it a liberty," Catya noted.

"I expect he would," Sansa answered lightly, then noticed Catya watching her sharply before dropping her eyes.

Catya bit her lip. "Mama? The baby…the baby girl who did not live?"

Sansa's brow furrowed and her full lips pursed in suppressed grief. "Yes?"

"She was born too early, they say, and so she could not survive."

Sansa nodded thoughtfully and kept brushing her daughter's hair.

"They say that I was born early, not seven moons after you and Papa were wed before the heart tree; yet I survived."

Sansa brushed for several more strokes, then stopped and set the hairbrush down on the dressing table. She drew a chair up to her daughter and took both her hands in hers.

"You were not born early, Catya. I think you realise that now, that I carried you when I wed your father in the Godswood, that-"

"Was that not a liberty?"

Sansa raised her head and jut her chin out defensively. "We have told you what our lives were like then, Catya: about war and winter and those who wanted us captured and executed. I stood accused of regicide, and your father was wanted for desertion, and raping and pillaging: all false but widely believed; and so we sometimes did not know if we would survive another day," she held Catya's hands tightly in hers. "And we _loved _each other, Catya, so much," she caught her breath to say it, "so much we ached from it: when he held me I would put my face in his neck and just _breathe_ him in. I would put my hand on his heart to feel it beating." She smiled tremulously to see her daughter's apprehension. "I wish the same for you, my Catya, for you and Loras: that you should love each other so much that it becomes the air you breathe and the reason your heart beats," she finished with a passion that seemed to overwhelm Catya.

"Loras," she stammered, "Loras and I will be married first-"

"Yes, you will," Sansa told her firmly, "but propriety is not the death of love, or passion; mayhaps it will just be the beginning."

She turned he daughter's hand over and pressed it to her cheek now.

"I'm sorry if we disappoint you, Catya, but we were already wed in a way: you see your father had twice given me his cloak and he twice vowed to protect me; in the eyes of the old gods we had only to lie together then to be married," she smiled wistfully. "That is what I told your father then, and he did not trouble himself to argue the point."

"_You_? You told Papa that?"

"I did. Had you thought your Papa had forced me? I was a maid, Catya, but I was no longer innocent; I could not be after everything I had seen. I just wanted to love, and be loved; and so did he, though he could not say so or even think himself worthy of it." Her jaw tensed to think of his lonely anguish, worse than her own for never having had a loving family. "He would never have hurt me, then or now; he would kill and even die for me, as he would for you," she told her daughter somberly.

"He- he won't kill Loras, will he?" Catya tried to jest but her smile faltered.

Sansa hesitated. "I think not…there will be far too many witnesses present."

Catya laughed quietly.

"Be patient with your Papa, Catya. He loves you so much; and he only wants to protect you, we both do. We never want any of you to suffer and lose nearly everything as we once did. He is a fighter, he says so himself: that he only knows how to fight. He does not know how to give in, Catya, and he does not want to lose you."

"Papa could never lose me, Mama; no matter how far away I should be," she whispered.

Sansa leaned and kissed her forehead. "Mayhaps, you should tell him that."


	9. Chapter 9

It was a sunny yet chilly afternoon when their families gathered in the yard of Winterfell to greet the Tyrells. Sansa wore a dark green gown and a jade green cloak trimmed with grey fur and stood next to Sandor who wore black from his doublet down to his polished boots, topped by his heavy black cloak. She wondered if his face had looked as stern when he had taken her from behind that morning, bending her over her dressing table and grunting as he had thrust rough and deep. She had urged him on with hotly whispered endearments and soft cries; needing the same shattering release he sought before this fraught day. Now as he rocked on his feet and grumbled impatiently, she had to suppress a wry smile when she thought fleetingly that he would look to the Tyrells like the Stranger himself, only somewhat less welcoming.

Their younger sons fidgeted and poked each other until Sandor stilled them with a fierce look of reprimand. Catya stood silently on his other side, dressed in an unadorned gown of deep wine-red wool beneath a grey cloak fastened with the gold Tyrell rose that Loras had gifted her. Her maid had pulled back her hair at the crown with a single ribbon, leaving it to hang loose down her back in a glossy dark fall. Sansa sensed her agitation, and saw her cheeks alternately flame and whiten and her hands tremble as she clutched them tightly together. Wordlessly, Sandor reached over and took one to hold in his as he kept his grey eyes fixed on the gate and Catya smiled gently, comforted.

Moments later, guards on horseback cantered through the gates carrying aloft house banners for Stark, Clegane and the gold roses on green of House Tyrell. Sansa was proud to see Ned rein his mount at the gate and bow to the Tyrells as he let them pass, and Rickon stepped forward and personally helped Lady Leonette dismount before welcoming Ser Garland and his wife to Winterfell. She smiled as she always did to see Rickon, her family's baby, acting as Lord Stark, but then she glimpsed her son Robb riding through the gates flanked by Willam and Ser Loras and suddenly lost sight of all else. Her hands flew to her throat to see him grown taller and more confident-looking, so like his namesake, her elder brother Robb when she had last seen him. Tears blurred her vision and she nearly sobbed from sheer happiness, and she could not resist breaking away and holding out her arms when her son ran to her.

"Mama!" he cried as he hugged her so tightly he lifted her from the ground. Sansa squeaked in surprise.

"Sorry, but I missed you, Mama." He smiled joyfully and turned to his father. "Papa-"

Sandor stepped forward. "Don't even think of lifting me, boy," he warned, his mouth twitching into a smile as he embraced his son. Then he straightened and arranged his face in a serious expression and walked forward to meet Garlan Tyrell.

"Lord Clegane," Ser Garlan held out his hand and clasped Sandor's heartily, "we are honoured that you have consented to join our houses, and truly delighted to see you and Lady Clegane again."

Sandor bowed. "Lord and Lady Tyrell," he rasped stiffly, "we are honoured to have our daughter wed your son."

"We are equally happy to see you all again," Sansa interjected warmly, "and pray you had a pleasant journey to Winterfell." She knew how much Sandor loathed formalities and so moved to put everyone at their ease; then her own gracious courtesy was shaken when she saw young Loras behind his parents. Like his father he was taller and broader than his namesake uncle, with the same chestnut brown hair and warm golden brown eyes as all the Tyrells, but she was momentarily taken aback to see him wearing a bandage and patch over one eye and to notice the red welt of a scar running down the side of his otherwise perfectly handsome face.

"Ser Loras," she managed finally.

"Lady Clegane," he bowed. "Pray forgive my appearance; the maester has assured me I will heal perfectly well in time." He offered his hand to Sandor. "Lord Clegane, I am honoured and overjoyed that you should accept my suit for your only daughter. I pledge to you and to her to keep her safe and happy, always."

"Ser Loras," Sandor drawled, "how is it that you are injured?"

"In a melee," Loras said dismissively, "A mere scratch; thank you for your kind inquiry, my lord."

He now turned to Catya with a warm smile, holding out both hands to take hers.

"Ser Loras," she murmured sweetly and curtsied.

"Lady Catya, I am pleased beyond words to see you again, and to know we shall be married. You are lovelier than I remembered," he gushed. "I am also honoured that you should wear my token today, my lady."

"Thank you, Ser Loras, you are too kind." Though she smiled at him, she blushed deeply under his warm gaze.

"Mama, Caty's all red!" Benjen blurted.

"What is all this now?" Sandor asked gruffly, noticing the activity between Ned and Rickon and the steward of Winterfell at the gate. Everyone turned and Catya's embarrassment was forgotten as Garlan Tyrell caught on to Sandor's diversion.

"The Reach has been blessed with the most bountiful harvest in memory, my lord; as I told Lord Stark we wished to share our good fortune with Winterfell…rather than simply descend upon you like swarms of locusts just before winter," he laughed modestly.

"Winter stores, Papa: barrels and barrels in wagon after wagon of grain, dried fruit and salt fish and Arbor wines," Robb enthused. "And livestock too: it is being driven here behind us from the second ship."

"Most generous of you, Lord Tyrell" Sandor nodded.

"Garlan, if it please you. We are all family now: Clegane, Stark and Tyrell, and so what it ours is also yours." He turned to Catya with a gallant bow. "Though I fear, we can never give equal to that which we are gaining," he intoned solemnly.

Loras raised her hand to kiss it now, and she blushed again.

"Pray come inside," Rickon called now, "and rest after your long journey." He offered his arm to Leonette while Garlan took Ayme's, and so Sansa wrapped both hands around Sandor's elbow and smiled up at him.

He stared straight ahead and his mouth twitched.

….

The welcoming feast was a great success, Sansa observed from the high table where she still sat with Ayme and Leonette once the servants stopped serving the courses and began circulating more flagons of wine. The ladies talked idly of their children and those Northerners expected in the coming days as wedding guests. Her older children and the Tyrell boys sat together at the end of the table, talking and laughing, and she was pleased to see Catya appear more at ease with her betrothed. The men were circulating amongst the tables, sharing jests and raising their goblets. She noticed Sandor eyeing Loras now as he walked between tables to stand below the high table.

"Ser Loras!" He called out loudly so that the hall quieted to hear him. "Tell us of your melee, if you would; your first as a knight, I believe." He raised his wine and drank, his eyes fixed on his daughter's intended.

"It was, my lord. I was knighted before the tourney however," he clarified, "certainly not because of it, as everyone can see." He gestured to his bandage, self-deprecatingly, and those assembled laughed appreciatively at his humility.

"No, you were knighted for a brave deed," Sandor rasped respectfully. "Even here in the North, we heard of how you and the knight for whom you were squiring saved young girls from the Mander when a barge overturned."

Cheers and toasts sounded in the hall but Loras shifted uncomfortably.

"You are too kind, all of you; however we did only what is required of decent men. You see, the merchant was more concerned with saving his wares than his daughters," he recounted bitterly. "I am only thankful that we should have been there. We brought them to the nearest castle for shelter and care, and the lord saw fit to knight me. And there you have it," he announced, "not Ser Barristan the Bold by any means but an honour for my family."

"Here-here" many called while Catya gazed proudly at him.

"Hm, better to be knighted at tourneys or on the battlefield, you believe?" Sandor continued.

"Certainly our history's most celebrated knights were raised that way, my lord. But-"

"But?" Sandor prompted.

"Westeros is at still at peace after many years of war, gods be good, my lord; and even tourneys fell out of fashion for many years afterward."

"_Fashion_?" Sandor mocked. "Yes, it is all very fashionable to be a knight, whether you are saving maidens or slaying monsters, _Ser_ Loras-"

He was interrupted when the Blackfish suddenly stood up beside him with his arms full.

"Forgive me, my lord: just a fallen soldier who needs be put to bed," he jested lightly.

Sandor looked down to see Benjen dozing, his face a mess of crumbs and a sticky cake still clutched in his fingers. His mouth twitched into a smile.

"Boy can't hold his Arbor wine, it seems," Sandor announced and he saw the Blackfish eye him shrewdly. "Let me take him then," he offered, taking the excuse to remove himself from the hall. "I've fallen at feasts a few times myself," he rasped.

"Lords and ladies, continue your feasting," Rickon called when he saw all eyes were on Sandor. "Musicians, play!"

Sandor turned from the high table with his youngest son in his arms, ignoring the round-eyed stares of his wife and daughter.


	10. Chapter 10

Sansa returned to her chamber exhausted, and leaned against the inside of the heavy door before crossing towards her dressing table. She stopped short to remember her and Sandor's urgent coupling that morning and felt an overwhelming sadness for him that eclipsed her irritation with his behaviour. Still, she could not allow him to undermine his daughter's happiness, not now that it was so obvious.

She sat at the table now, and lowered her head to reach and unclasp her necklace when she heard her maid enter.

"Just unlace me, please," she said without looking up, "I'm very tired-"

"I've sent her away," Sandor rasped now, and she jumped and turned to look at him. "I thought you would want to speak privately," he told her and waited for her reply. "Shall I unlace you, my lady?" he asked when no reply came.

She nodded and turned her back to him, sweeping her elaborate braid forward over her shoulder and untying the bottom.

"Thank you for taking Benjen to bed," she said. "Have you been with him all this time?"

"Aye, and discovered it is almost as difficult to undress a heavy sleeping boy as a wiggling talkative one. Brynden came up not long after with the Blackfish-"

"He is a great help with the boys," Sansa remarked softly as she continued untwining her hair.

"Aye," Sandor tried for levity, "all of us boys."

She turned back to him again.

"Please don't jest about this, Sandor. The Tyrells are our guests in Winterfell, I cannot have any of them belittled or insulted. I am as torn inside as you are that Catya will marry and leave us, but she loves Loras, Sandor; as he loves her."

"_Ser_ Loras loves his honour and his tourneys: he is as cocky and careless as his namesake, little bird," he insisted irritably. "There, you're done," he rasped, giving her laces a final jerk to loosen them.

"You don't know that, Sandor; not after one day-"

"A dog can smell a lie, girl. He will not talk about his injury in the melee; and do you know why?"

"Yes, Robb told us: he continued fighting even after his helm was knocked off and he feels foolish," Sansa replied.

"As well he should: bloody stupid, taking that risk for a ribbon and some notion of honor or glory. What else might he be stupid about?" he challenged. "What other careless risks will he take?"

She stood up and began removing her gown. "I remember you fought in tourneys as well, my love; but I don't recall you thinking it stupid, at least not stupid enough to stay away."

"I fought for gold, girl: I had none; and for the chance to knock some puffed-up knights off their mounts and onto their self-important arses," he sneered angrily, "and to do it in front of their ladies fair too."

She looked at him a long moment before turning again in her corset.

"Please," she asked softly, and waited for him to step closer and begin unlacing her again. "Sandor, trust that I know well and share your contempt for false knights," she admitted, pain in her voice. "The Mountain, the Kingsguard, the Mad Mouse," she cringed even to speak of them, "but I do not believe Loras is anything like them, my love; I cannot believe it. He was knighted for helping those poor, drowning girls, Sandor: is it not more worthy that he should have been knighted for saving lives instead of taking them?"

Sandor ripped off her corset and turned her roughly to face him, his hands gripping her shoulders tightly.

"That's right: we wouldn't want your precious Loras to be a killer like your dog of a husband, little bird," he rasped with barely contained fury. Then his eyes raked down her body, making her very conscious of being dressed only in woolen stockings and linen smallclothes. "Only how do you expect him to protect our daughter as I have protected _you_: with fancy words and a bloody tourney sword?"

With that he pushed her away from him, though his gaze kept lingering over her breasts to her hips and back again.

Sansa sniffled now and crossed her arms. "Please, Sandor," she begged, "please don't be angry: I never meant-"

"Might be you've forgotten your first tourney, little bird: you've forgotten I won the tourney because _I _saved a life, instead of letting my _Ser_ brother take one. Even your pretty, cocky Ser Daisy appreciated that."

He turned to walk away but stopped short, realizing there was nowhere he could go with guests in the castle. The servants would talk, and Sansa would be humiliated. He stood there, his breath heaving like that of a bull. He heard another sniffle from Sansa.

"I have never forgotten that day, Sandor; nor that night," she told him tearfully.

He looked at her now; she seemed suddenly so small and she was shivering.

"I made you cry that night too," he said ruefully.

"And you told me the truth," she whispered," but you were so _angry_, Sandor; I have prayed never to see you so angry again."

He walked back to her and rubbed his hands up and down her arms to warm her.

"I have another young girl to protect now, little bird; I needs know the truth about this boy if I am to do that," he confessed as he drew her closer to him.

"Ask him then if you must," she looked up into his eyes now. "You of all men will know if he is lying."

He nodded and held her close again. "Yes, I will," he rasped resolutely.

….

In the morning, Loras and Willam asked to join the house guard in their drilling with Sandor, which he approved. Garlan Tyrell excused himself and asked to speak with Sansa privately. She showed him into the solar with a gentle smile but was mentally preparing herself to have to explain her husband's untoward behavior.

"My lady," he began, and hesitated, "I wished to tell you that, when sailing up the coast, we put in at Lannisport and were invited to Casterly Rock. As you must know, Lord Tyrion returned there when he retired as Hand to the Dragon Queen."

Sansa nodded briefly. Despite the passing of years, she could think well of any Lannister, not even her once-husband in name only, and preferred not to hear of them lest she have cause to seem ungracious.

"He knew we were travelling to Winterfell and why; I don't doubt the former Hand still has his spies and whisperers. Fear not," he reassured her when he saw her draw a tense breath, "he was most kind to Robb, and asked about you and your family and Winterfell."

"Forgive me, Ser Garlan, I do not wish to appear discourteous and I appreciate that you should-"

"It is I who must ask forgiveness for I see that I am distressing you and that was not my intention, though I confess it was my fear. I speak to you because Lord Tyrion has offered a gift to Lady Catya, and I could not bring myself to refuse it; however I understand if you do not wish for her to accept it or mayhaps even to know about it. But I did wish to ask your counsel on the matter."

"I believe it is my husband's counsel you should be asking, Ser Garlan," she reproached him gently. However he should behave, Sandor was Lord Clegane and Catya's father and Sansa believed he was owed that respect.

"I apologize, my lady; but forgive me for suggesting that neither Lord Tyrion nor Lord Clegane seem inclined to forgive each other past offences," he stated awkwardly, and Sansa dipped her head in acknowledgement to the truth. "Besides, my lady, the letter enclosed is addressed to you."

Sansa's eyes widened in surprise and she stood momentarily dumbfounded until a page appeared with a wooden box for Ser Garlan and handed it to him with a bow. She looked at it with some trepidation and made her decision.

"I thank you for your discretion, my lord; however I do not keep secrets from my lord husband, and I would ask that we consult him in this matter."

_My dear Lady Clegane (and who would ever have imagined seeing those two words used together) News has reached me, as all news does, of your daughter's betrothal. Please accept this gift as my sincere wish for her happiness, a happiness I know too well that you were denied as a girl. I do wish I could have done more to prevent it however there is no changing the past as we well know and we both have the losses to show for it. I am pleased to hear that the girl has grown up safe and happy and is reputedly very lovely which is passing remarkable considering her sire however I know you have grace and loveliness in abundance to make up for him. Please don't let the miserable dog throw my gift down the privy or feed it to the pigs as I have made some effort to ensure it is an appropriate and worthy piece. I truly wish you only happiness, Sansa, you and your entire family (yes, even him) Yours faithfully, Tyrion Lannister, Casterly Rock_

"Fucking imp!" Sandor swore savagely and kicked the table. "Even in a letter he can't keep his bloody mouth shut. He should have burned on the Blackwater or from dragonfire-"

"Sandor," Sansa murmured and looked to Garlan to remind him he was in the solar as well.

"Well, what is this _gift_?" he asked Garlan irritably. "And how do we know it is not some vile jape, or poisoned, or-"

"Lord Tyrion did show it to Leonette and I and I believe that it is sincerely intended, despite his cutting words which have long been his armor. Lord Tyrion, if you will permit me to speak of him, is an unhappy man: he is alone in that great castle with only servants and his joints are painful and swollen so that it is difficult for him to walk even from room to room. He has no wife or children, only his many scrolls and books. He is reviled by many; and I do understand why that is," he said to placate Sandor, "and he is still ridiculed by most despite the power he had achieved. It is sad and perhaps improper to say, but I pity the man. He wanted revenge and power, Lord Clegane; you wanted Lady Sansa: which of you do you believe is happier now?"

He paused to let his words resonate before speaking again. "Here, may I?" He reached for the wooden box and opened it, withdrawing a velvet bag which he then overturned into his hand and set the gift down on the velvet bag on top of the table. Sansa could not stifle her gasp.

The necklace was a strand of the finest matched black pearls, accented with a brilliantly cut, pear-shaped yellow diamond pendant. Sansa was stunned by its magnificence and overwhelmed to think how much such a gift must have cost.

"A Lannister always pays his debts," she murmured.

"Well?" Sandor rasped. "Is it a jape, or is it rich?"

"It is very fine and costly," Sansa said slowly. "And wrought in House Clegane colors, my lord."

Sandor hesitated; then sneered. "Do we needs thank the little bugger?"

"Of course we must thank him; though he did address me so that I may reply if you will not."

Garlan shook his head. "Tyrion Lannister is not a fool; surely he realizes how you and your children may feel towards him."

"Yet he sent it anyway," Sansa mused, looking at his gift.

"What are you saying, little bird?"

"Merely that if Tyrion could make himself look generous and gallant while angering you beyond all reason, he would surely consider his gold well-spent," she told him shrewdly.

"Catya knows he is a lion, she knows what that means: she may very likely refuse it," Sandor countered.

"Then we shall return his gift with thanks and regret," she answered.

Sandor's mouth twitched. "I like the privy suggestion better," he rasped.


	11. Chapter 11

As days passed, more guests arrived and Sansa found herself alongside Rickon and Ayme and the Tyrells greeting families of House Umber, Glover, Manderly and Reed. Members of the Mountain Clans settled in their winter town homes: some would stay until spring, others would return to the mountains after the wedding to reap what they still could from their lands before winter. Sansa knew many of the old men would not return, choosing instead to die in the cold mountains. She walked through the town and welcomed them warmly, knowing they had respected her father, and that they respected Sandor, whom they called "The Clegane", since his fierceness and stubbornness more than equaled their own.

The Mormont women arrived wearing breeches and mail, bearing gifts of arms, a weirwood sapling for the Glass Garden and, to Sansa's suprised delight, two large and furry black puppies for Brynden and Benjen. She laughed to see their excitement and was reminded of the day her father and brothers returned to Winterfell with orphaned direwolf pups for all the Stark children, including Jon. She bravely suppressed her sad tears and told her sons they must care for the pups themselves, train and feed them and chose their names carefully. When a violent autumn tempest drove both boys and their dogs to seek comfort and refuge in Sansa and Sandor's bed that same night, the pups were named Thunder and Storm.

The rain stops in time for the next morning's hunt and Lord Tyrell and his son Ser Loras are momentarily astonished to see Catya, dressed in worn brown velvet breeches, leather jerkin and high boots, join the hunt alongside the Mormont women. The women tuck daggers into their waistbands and sling their quivers and bows across their backs as the Northmen nod their appreciation and set out to the Wolfswood with their hunstmen and dogs.

The meal in the Great Hall that evening is particularly raucous as they feast on their wild game, from rabbit stew to roasted fowl to spits of boar and venison. The Mountain clansmen, not content with out-riding and out-hunting each other now proceed to try to out-eat and out-drink their rivals as well. The Mormont women are serenaded by the entire gathering with "The Bear and the Maiden Fair," with most agreeing they are equal parts bear and fair maiden.

"Not true!" called the Greatjon. "Not all are maidens," he jested bawdily and good-natured comments fly with great merriment.

"What did the man mean, Mama?" Benjen asked in confusion.

"Look, Benjen: lemon cakes!" Sansa tells him.

"Lord Tyrell," the Greatjon called, "what say you of our Northern huntresses?"

"I say they are as bold and swift as they are beautiful, Lord Umber," he replied, living up to his soubriquet of Garlan the Gallant.

"Do your women join the hunt in the South, my lord?" Sandor asked now, though after years with the royal party he already knew the answer.

"They sometimes ride with us," Garlan replied, "but do not go afoot after prey nor take part in the kill. They are not taught to hunt and therefore show no real interest."

Sandor nodded. "And will my daughter be permitted to hunt in the Reach?"

Many in the hall quieted to hear the answer and all eyes turned to Ser Loras and Catya at the high table.

"If it please her, my lord," Loras answered easily, "someone needs keep the larders well-stocked."

Everyone laughed and Sandor raised his goblet to his daughter who giggled happily.

"If she impressed you with her bow, Ser Loras, wait until you see her with an axe!" Ned jested.

Cries of approval went up among the tables and many of the Clansmen held up axes and called for a demonstration. Torches were brought forth and many headed out into the yard towards the archery butts. Catya accepted an axe from a distant Flint relative and lined herself up to the target. With an indrawn breath, she lifted it above her head and threw it forcefully with a hoarse cry. When it flew straight to embed itself in the wood with a solid _thunk_ and held, the roar was deafening. But before Sandor could embrace her in congratulations, she was already swept up in the arms of her betrothed who then held her hand aloft like a tourney champion. As drunken men now lined up to best the bride-to-be at axe-wielding, Sandor quietly slipped away back towards the hall where he found Benjen standing in the doorway.

"What are you doing there, little man," he rasped, "did you come to watch them throw axes?"

"My tummy hurts," he pouted.

"Too much venison, and too many lemon cakes," he drained his goblet. "Come sit," he motioned to a bench and sat down next to his youngest son. He placed one large hand on the boy's shoulder and the other on his belly and rubbed slow circles. Soon there was a sound like linen ripping.

"I farted," Benjen admitted sheepishly.

"Don't tell the Mountain folk," Sandor warned him dryly, "they're like to make a contest of it."

Benjen's puppy came sniffing at their feet and under the bench, looking for more scraps to eat before giving up and sitting attentively. The boy broke wind again and his puppy tilted his head curiously.

"Why does he look at me like that, Papa?"

"Might be he's wondering why he's called Thunder when you're making all the noise," he told his son.

"I can't help it," he told his father apologetically.

"Nor should you: don't hold them in, son, you'll only feel worse."

"For true, Papa?"

"Aye, your Papa had to do it for years whilst guarding a nasty, evil queen and her monstrous son. Everyone feared me because I looked fierce and mean," he lowered his head to his son's and rasped confidentially, "I really only needed to fart."

Benjen laughed.

"Just try not to eat so much so fast, son; time will come when you needs train with steel you'll find it's better to fight with a near-empty belly," he advised him. "I've seen many good fighters get winded or heave their guts while battling and lose to lesser men."

"A better fighter can _lose_?" his son asked incredulously.

"In the blink of an eye," Sandor rasped harshly. "All a man needs do is be careless or cocky and let his guard down for the merest instant and he's a dead man."

He saw his son was looking back at him with owlish eyes, overawed. He squeezed his shoulder comfortingly.

"You'll learn, just as your brothers have, and me and your uncle Rickon, and the Blackfish-"

Thunder raised his head suddenly, then rose on all fours and wagged his tail furiously as his brother Storm emerged from the hall, followed by Brynden.

"Why are you all out here?" he asked his father.

"Benjen has a bellyache; the others are hurling axes with drunkards. Come sit by me," Sandor replied.

Brynden came and sat, watching his puppy sniff the ground.

"You've been quiet," Sandor remarked.

Brynden shrugged one shoulder and swung his feet. "Everyone's busy," he mumbled.

"Aye, they are." He put a hand on Brynden's shoulder now. "There are a great many people now but they're our guests so we must attend to them." There was a great splintering sound from the archery butts followed by raucous cheering. "They'll be gone soon enough, then we can go to the Wolfswood, just us three, and I can teach you to lay snares for catching rabbits. Do you like to eat rabbit?"

Brynden smiled now, and nodded. "Can I wear a dagger, and skin a rabbit?"

"Aye, son, we'll pick a dagger out of the armoury for you," he rasped.

Just then Ned and Robb and Willam approached with Catya and Loras behind them.

"They've destroyed half the archery butts," Robb told his father, laughing

"That's why we only left half of them out," Sandor told him.

"Good. You'll still be able to practice then," Willam jeered at him.

"What's this?" Sandor rasped.

Robb looked humbled. "The archery competition at the tourney at Old Oak: I didn't make the last round."

"So?" Sandor challenged, "Not a bad effort; you're better with a sword than a bow anyways."

"That's what I told him," Loras agreed, "though I am clearly no expert in capabilities."

"You must not mock yourself so meanly for an accident, Ser Loras," Catya told him softly.

Loras turned to her eagerly. "I'll win a tourney someday, I promise, and crown you Queen of Love-"

Sandor stood up and towered over him, glowering.

"If you knew this house's history,_ Ser_ Loras, you could not wish this on my daughter," he rasped angrily.

Catya eye's widened in surprise. "But we'll be married, Papa," she reasoned.

"Forgive me, my lord," Loras interrupted her firmly. "You are right. I meant no disrespect to you or to Winterfell. I apologize, my lady."

"You should all go inside," Sandor insisted. "You've left your mother alone with all those guests."

His older children and the Tyrell boys obeyed him unquestioningly, and entered the Great Hall with subdued expressions, like chastened children.

Sandor turned back to the bench to see his younger sons looking at him wide-eyed.

"Are we in trouble too, Papa?" Brynden asked.

"No one's in trouble, son; but mayhaps you should go to bed now. Go on, I'll be right behind you," he prompted them.

Both boys slid down off the bench and called to their puppies to follow. Once they were out of sight, he kicked the bench and cursed angrily.

"Sandor?" came a familiar voice in the dark yard.

He turned suddenly and his mouth twitched into a weary half-smile.

"Lord Commander Snow," he rasped. "Welcome home."


	12. Chapter 12

Sandor walked into the chamber after his afternoon instruction in the yard to hear voices from their adjoining dressing room. Servants were filling the bath with hot water while Sansa's maid arranged scrub brushes and scent bottles on a nearby table. Sansa herself stood in her silk robe and bare feet with her hair loose around her shoulders.

"Is it hot enough, milady?"

Sansa leaned over the steaming tub. "I should think so," she remarked archly.

"Seven bloody hells, my lady: I've seen cauldrons of broth with less steam! Do you mean to be boiled like a side of mutton?"

"Why then, I shall have to occupy myself while it cools, my lord," she smiled; then turned to the servants. "You may leave us."

Later, Sandor leaned back against Sansa in the warm water as she hummed and scrubbed his hair with gentle fingers.

"I was beginning to despair that we should ever have a moment's peace," she murmured in his ear now.

He turned his head to look at the simple low chair where she had straddled him as he'd pulled away the sash of her robe.

"Peace?" A low laugh rumbled in his chest. "What piece of me had you been wanting a moment with, little bird?"

She laughed, carefree for the first time in what seemed like weeks, and he caressingly ran his large hand down the length of her calf where it rested on the side of the bathtub and admired its shapeliness. But she grew quiet as she raised handfuls of water to rinse his hair.

"I need to dress now," she told him softly, with a sigh. "The ladies will be gathering in the solar soon with their needlework for tea and cakes."

"Why don't they fuck their own husbands?" he grumbled and she struck his shoulder lightly as he sat up. "Or I can ask volunteers from the garrison if they're bored."

She looked over his dripping wet body as he climbed out of the bath and feigned confused innocence.

"Do women become bored with their husbands, my lord?"

He grabbed her arm and pulled her from the water after him.

"I know one woman who had better not," he rasped closely.

She kissed him and tossed him a linen towel from the pile on the table. He caught it and meant to throw it over his shoulders but it landed on top of his head instead. Unfazed, he pulled the edges together under his chin and put on a dour face.

"Look, I'm a septa. Mayhaps I'll join you for tea."

Sansa collapsed onto the low chair, giggling helplessly.

….

Sansa sat next to Leonette in the solar, working yet another dog onto her youngest son's doublet. She set her work down, and Leonette glanced over at her. Sansa smiled back.

"May I confide in you that I miss embroidering my daughter's clothing? All those lovely flowers and vines and birds; even when I made stars for Robb as a boy he wanted dogs jumping over them," she laughed, "so I learned not to stray from their expectations."

"And what were their expectations?" Leonette smiled.

"To take after their father, of course: they do admire him so."

"So does Loras," Leonette ventured.

"Yes, Catya remarked at how respectful she found your son to be of my husband; and of course Willam was always courteous. We were so delighted to ward him here at Winterfell," Sansa told her warmly, "though I expect he has been glad to be home in the Reach."

"He has, but I also believe he misses the…" she paused to consider the correct word, "less formal life of the North, and of course having so many children about: yours and Lord and Lady Stark's."

Her smile was strained, and Sansa restrained herself from offering comfort. She had suspected that Leonette grieved at having only birthed two children, though she had never confided in Sansa and so therefore she did not feel that it was her place to speak of it.

"We, Garlan and I, well…we wondered if we should offer to ward either of your younger sons, Sansa. Of course we would love to have them, however Garlan fears that, since we haven't children of their ages, that they should feel lonely."

Now it was Sansa's turn to smile weakly. "You are so kind to offer, Leonette, however, as the Starks say: winter is coming; if we were to send Brynden away now then we could not hope to see him again for many years and-" She stopped herself but not soon enough.

"And you are already losing Catya," Leonette finished sympathetically. "I understand. I, of course I am pleased to have given my husband sons; but I had hoped to have a daughter as well."

"And now you will," Sansa whispered to her, and she squeezed Leonette's hand when she turned to her. "Please know that I am happy about the marriage: it is clear how very much they care for each other, and I know she will be well-looked after, by you and Garlan as well as your son."

Leonette caught her breath and gave her a tremulous smile.

"Thank you, Sansa," she breathed, "I-, that is most generous of you. I-, I hope Lord Clegane does not feel that he has cause for concern…"

Sansa hesitated, she wanted to comfort Leonette, but could not betray her husband and his worst secret and bitterest memory; worse than his burn scars or the murder of his father was the haunting spectre of his young sister, dead at the hands of the Mountain. Sansa had long understood that Sandor's fierce love for their daughter, the sometimes wonder and amazement she saw in his face when he looked upon her was surely due to some reminder or even some resemblance to his lost sister. He had tensed involuntarily when she had offered to name their first born for her, and had looked pained at the suggestion. They had instead chosen Catya, a name they had heard from a wilding, because it sounded like both Catelyn and Arya combined. No, she knew that she could not recount to anyone the awful pain that Sandor harboured and could scarcely bring himself to share even with her. She would sooner cut his heart out with a dagger, as he had taught her to do once long ago, for it would hurt him less.

"Catya is our first-born, and our only daughter: he cannot but be concerned, and I would not presume to tell him to feel otherwise, though I know there is not cause. It is a father's love; nothing more…but nothing less," she emphasized gently.

"Of course," Leonette replied politely, with an uncertain smile. "Thank you, Sansa."

….

"The Iron Bank?" Jon repeated incredulously. "What would you need with the Iron Bank?"

Sandor looked down to the wine goblet he held, embarrassed to be asking about matters to do with money.

"Greywind Keep," he answered shortly, "it needs rebuilding."

"I thought you had already started rebuilding; has this wedding cost so much?" Jon asked bluntly.

"No," Sandor rasped emphatically. "Seven hells: Rickon's putting everyone up, and Tyrell's brought half the product of the Reach with him. Everyone's brought gifts, for Winterfell as well as…for Catya and Loras," he forced the words out, not seeing Jon raise his eyebrows in realization. "I've only had to pay for some new clothes, and gifts of our own. Thing is," he paused, sighing and rolling his eyes impatiently, "thing is: I haven't that much to begin with. Buggering hells, I wasn't born a lord and I fucking certainly haven't acted like one. I couldn't ask high taxes after the wars; some stipend from the guilds and villages is all I've taken, to keep the patrols through the lands and to put aside for rebuilding-"

"And it hasn't been enough," Jon concluded.

"Not to get it done quickly," Sandor answered gruffly, "and as you all are fond of saying: winter is coming. We need a garrison for winter. Tyrell's supplied us with stores enough, I hope; and we can train more men and squires in time. But the keep itself needs more builders and materials to be ready for winter."

"The keep?"

"Aye, the keep. Just one floor maybe, with some rooms habitable," he grumbled defensively, "is that so much?"

"Sandor, are you planning to live there in winter, with your family?" Jon prompted.

"Not me: Ned," he replied. "And his family, if he has one," Sandor added.

"Is there another betrothal I don't know about?" Jon asked, amazed.

"No," Sandor rasped, "not yet anyways. Lots of girls here though…for the wedding; might be he sees one he likes. It'll be buggering cold there all by himself at night."

Jon snorted. "Where there's a garrison…wenches will follow."

"Aye," Sandor agreed, "there's enough hanging about there now for the maester to stock moon tea-"

"Better than having bastards," Jon commented quietly.

"Better than having them freeze or starve," Sandor agreed, "let them have them in the spring."

Jon remained silent on the subject, then returned to the first one.

"The Iron Bank are ruthless, Sandor," Jon warned darkly. "They may loan you money, if some lords vouch for you, or because they like the odds."

"I've only gambled with dice, man. What are these odds?" Sandor asked gruffly.

"If they should want repayment and you don't have it, Sandor: what are you prepared to lose?"


	13. Chapter 13

Sandor was in a somewhat better mood. It had taken some effort.

Both his older sons and Willam Tyrell had slept through the early training with the garrison. He knew that they had gone to the winter town with some other men after the evening meal and drank in the tavern that was also known to have wenches and rooms for hire. He was as irritated by their sloth as their indiscretion, for certainly Sansa and Leonette were bound to hear with so many people talking; but never in his years of drinking and whoring in King's Landing had he missed morning training. The Tyrell lad was no longer his ward and therefore not his responsibility but his own sons were, and they had their own responsibilities and duties in Winterfell and sleeping off drunken debauches, especially when there were guests in residence was not one of them.

_Se_r Loras, he had grudgingly acknowledged, had not joined them. He had remained in attendance in the Great Hall with his father, speaking with other lords and guests and thanking them for their presence and their gifts for the forthcoming wedding. Then he had risen early to ride out with his father and Catya and some of the Mormont women.

When he returned, he had offered to assist Sandor with training his younger initiates at arms, and the Tyrell boy had made himself more than useful in helping and encouraging some of the slower learners. Though Sandor never ridiculed or brow-beat the younger boys as he did sometimes with the men of his garrison, he could not be soft or sympathetic with them either, not even his own sons: he needed discipline and attentiveness from them if they were going to learn. He also realized some of them feared him and though it still pained him to see it, Sandor had long reconciled himself to the fact that he could never change his face; a face that scared small children, except his own of course. Brynden had joined the training last year and was always watchful and serious, never expecting favor from his father or the other boys. On this day, he was pleased to have a son who made him feel proud and he reminded himself to tell Brynden so privately.

The day was clear and the sun warm, despite the autumn chill that hung in the air, and many had left the keep to mill about the yard with their cloaks thrown open and turned back over their shoulders. Willam and Robb were practicing with others at the archery butts and Ned had been sent with a small retinue of soldiers to patrol the winter town to remind him he had duties to others and to teach him a lesson in humility, since the villagers were more like to laugh at him if he tried to speak with authority after the previous night. The Blackfish had accompanied the patrol in case of any real trouble: no one dared any backtalk or show of defiance with him despite his own nighttime visits to the village.

Once the lesson of the day was over, Sandor's eyes made their customary sweep of the surrounding men, prepared to take on any challenger. For an instant it seemed that none would step forward but finally Ser Loras stepped towards him and bowed his head respectfully.

"My lord, you were generous enough to spar with me on my last visit, and I believe I learned from you. Would you do me the honor of sparring again? I hope to see if my skills have improved."

"You want to spar with me, _Ser_?" Sandor exhaled with a hum of satisfaction. "Very well," he rasped, "but don your helm, and make sure you can see with that." He raised his sword to indicate Loras' bandage and patch. "Helms and shields," he instructed his squire, who ran to the armory.

As soon as they were outfitted by squires, Sandor turned on him. Loras blocked him just as quickly and parried the cut that followed. They circled for some time, and Loras managed to evade or deflect each blow. Even through his helm, Sandor could see his fierce concentration and effort but so far he had only acted defensively. He chuckled under his breath.

"Seems you dance very well, _Ser_, but you asked to spar: either forfeit or come at me, boy."

Loras lunged with a cry and Sandor blocked him this time, oddly pleased that it took some strength to do so. He stepped backward now, letting the boy gain ground so see how he would react and still he came at him with grunts as the sound of clashing steel grew louder in the yard.

"Good," Sandor rasped emphatically without thinking, "better."

He was grunting too now with every cut, blocking high and low with his sword and shield. He let Loras get close enough to push him back with his shield and the boy very nearly stumbled but quickly regained his balance and fought defensively until he spun away from Sandor to give himself more room to maneuver. Despite the slight distance, Sandor heard his ragged breath beneath his helm and so he went on the offensive once again. He began circling more to Loras' right, knowing his bandage surely limited his vision, and began cutting to his right side so that Loras needed to keep turning his head to block him. He continued parrying high to the right, straining Loras' vision and leaving his body open and then he began swinging his shield, forcing him to keep darting his one good eye about to block both sword and shield.

"You'll never beat me, boy, no matter how good you get," he laughed closely, "I'll _always_ be better-"

Loras brought his sword down with all his might and a ragged cry of frustrated rage on Sandor's shield, nearly sending him backwards. But Sandor recovered his step and blocked Loras's sword one last time before driving his shield and then his elbow into his middle, leaving the boy sprawled in the dirt with his sword almost out of reach. When he saw Loras cover himself with his shield and reach desperately for his sword, Sandor kicked the shield away and held the point of his sword under Loras' chin.

Utter silence followed from the entire yard.

"Yield," Loras choked out. "My lord, I yield."

Without a word Sandor raised his sword and turned the pommel out for his squire to take it from him. His shield followed and then he removed his helm. Loras was still sitting in the dirt, unfastening his helm.

"Are you hurt?" Sandor asked gruffly, and saw the boy shake his head without looking up. "Good, come with me." He pulled him to his feet and pushed him towards the armory, finally pushing him onto a bench against the wall once they were inside. Loras looked disheartened and sullen.

Sandor removed his gauntlets as he eyed him like easy prey.

"You frustrate easily, boy: a few taunts and you leave yourself open to a stronger opponent. Is this what you call improving?"

"No, my lord," Loras admitted morosely.

"No," Sandor agreed. "You challenged me with only one eye open, why give a man such an advantage: did you think I'd be too honorable to use it? No man would be, unless he's a septon or a fool. I have a bad leg, did you know that?"

"I did, my lord, but-"

"It's not easy to trip up, but it's possible: why didn't you try? Not honorable, is that it? Honor counts for shit when you're fighting: _never_ forget that, boy," he rasped harshly and continued.

"You want to win a tourney," he mocked, "I won a tourney once; surely you must have been told about your uncle?"

"Yes, my lord," he forfeited the last round of jousting because you saved his life against…against-"

"Against the Mountain," Sandor finished. "Yes, he attacked him after your uncle knocked him from his horse, but have you been told why he attacked him? Not that the Mountain ever needed a reason, mind you; but your uncle gave him one."

Loras shook his head, bewildered.

Sandor sneered. "He rode a mare in heat, knowing the Mountain favored ill-tempered stallions. His mount caught one whiff of her and could only think with its cock." Sandor laughed still to remember. "The Mountain fell and took his horse down with him at the first pass and your uncle won. Gregor called for his sword, first killing his horse, then knocking your uncle from his mare. Would have done for him too, right before the king and court and commons, but _I_ stepped in to block him."

"You were very brave, my lord-"

"You uncle was very foolish," Sandor countered harshly. "Provoking a brutal, mindless beast like the Mountain, the biggest bloody man in Westeros, was stupidly foolish and cocky. And for a mere joust, a tourney and bragging rights and a bag of gold: for that he risked his life. Lots of men will take your life, boy, if you give them half a chance; so why in seven hells give any of them good reason or an opportunity?"

Loras' face seemed to twist in pain and frustration and, to Sandor's astonishment, the boy banged his own head into the wall behind him.

"I've done it wrong," he spat between clenched teeth. "I hoped you would find me worthy, mayhaps even like me," he gave a bitter laugh. "I should have known. I should have tried to forget her, but I couldn't. I don't want to."

Sandor looked at him beneath heavy brows, perplexed, and took a step closer, meaning to check him for injury.

"I _love_ her," the boy nearly sobbed now. "She is gentle and bold and sweet and strong and so beautiful: she is everything. I don't want to be without her, I don't want to marry another."

Sandor very nearly sucked in his breath at the boy's pain and yearning, recognizing and remembering what it was to think you had lost the only woman you had ever wanted. He knew the boy wasn't playing him false: he could smell a lie, true enough, but he could also see the truth clearly when it was so close to his own.

"No," Sandor rasped, "nor will you. I didn't let you and your family and all these guests come here just to watch me knock you on your ass and send you away with your tail between your legs, boy. But your dreams and fairy tales of honor and glory end here and now," he pointed his finger to the ground for emphasis. "Train to fight, spar and ride and joust and prepare yourself for battle and even war and then you pray to your gods that they never come and you never needs test your skills and risk for life for true. Good men die in wars and no foe will care about honor: keep your guard up and your head clear and kill them the first chance you get, or they'll kill you; then my daughter will be without a husband and your children will be without a father. Your duty will be to them, not to seeking your own glory. You say she's everything: now you'll have everything to lose, so _don't_."

Loras sat watching him attentively, his face growing somber as his visible eye widened in realization and understanding at what Sandor was telling him.

"I- I will heed your words, my lord," he said sincerely, "and I thank you."

Sandor breathed out through his nose, a tired sigh. "Go find her then," he relented.

"I'm here," Catya interjected softly, and Sandor turned to see her with Sansa and Garlan in the doorway to the armory, watching them. Loras scrambled immediately to his feet.

Catya had taken several steps into the armory, looking at her father wide-eyed. He jerked his head towards Loras but she kept walking to him instead and raised herself on tiptoe to kiss his burned cheek.

"Papa," she whispered in gratitude and lowered herself again, smiling gently at him.

He blinked once, in surprise; he had expected her to be disappointed with him. He looked back towards the door and caught the eye of Garlan Tyrell, who nodded once approvingly and turned to leave. Sansa stayed to look at him steadily, the corners of her mouth turned up in a serene smile.

He looked back to see Loras take Catya's hand and squeeze it tightly as he held it to his heart. He lowered his face to hers as she brought her other hand up to his face. Sandor walked to Sansa.

"Did you learn the truth about him?" Sansa asked softly and quietly.

Sandor nodded. "I told you I would, little bird," he rasped low.

"And?" she prompted.

"He'll love and protect her," he confirmed.

"As you have done for me," she said sweetly.

"And he'll put away his childish notions of knights," he told her.

'As you had taught me," she admitted shyly, "and I am better for it."

"You let me love and protect and teach you, little bird; and I am better for it," he whispered quickly and turned back to Catya and Loras.

"Come," he called, "everyone is probably waiting to see if I've killed you or not."

"Some may be disappointed that you let me live, my lord," Loras jested awkwardly.

Sandor turned to him now to reassure him. "I'm not one of them."


	14. Chapter 14

That night in the hall, guests were convivial but subdued, the battle between Loras and Sandor having effectively resolved any reservations or resentments many had suspected the fierce father of the bride held against her betrothed. The only drama that seemingly remained for their entertainment was the wedding and bedding the next day.

Amid the conversations and laughter, the Greatjon called for a song.

"There's none with a sweeter voice than our Lady Clegane: who would hear her sing?" he called pounding his cane.

Sandor leaned over and rasped slyly in her ear: 'They'll have a song from you, little bird."

"_Florian and Jonquil,_ is it?"she whispered back.

Instead Sansa coaxed Catya, Leonette, Lyanna Mormont and two serving maids to join her in singing _Six Maids in a Pool._ In reply, Robb, Willam and Loras sang _The Maids that Bloom in Spring._ Encouraged by everyone, Loras then stood below the high table to serenade Catya with _Seasons of my Love._ He began awkwardly but grew more confident and though she blushed she held his gaze throughout the song.

"_I loved a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair_."

Donnel Flint of the mountain Flints moved the entire hall with _Brave Danny Flint, _but the Greatjon pounded his cane again in protest this time

"Here we've come for a wedding and we're all bawling to a lament?"

So then Jon Snow and Sandor joined the old man in _The Dornishman's Wife, _earning them cheers before they returned to the high table.

The Blackfish entered to the hall and spoke to Sandor who then leaned and whispered in Sansa's ear: "I would speak with Brynden before he is asleep."

Sansa turned to him. "We needs speak _of_ Brynden, my love," she said rather sadly. "Might I accompany you?"

A short time later they knocked softly on the boys' chamber door and looked in. Benjen was already sleeping, with Thunder curled up at his feet, though the pup's ears perked up and his tail wagged earnestly to see Sansa and Sandor enter and his eyebrows quirked as he watched them cross the room.

Brynden sat up in bed with a candle burning and a book in his lap but he was looking intently at Storm who stared back at him. Sansa smiled curiously.

"Are you reading to Storm?" she whispered, and her son shook his head. _So serious_, she thought, both charmed and concerned. "Your father and I would speak with you," she told him.

Brynden closed up his book and set it on his lap and waited.

Sandor spoke first. "You are behaving very well in training, son: you pay attention and follow instructions and so I am very proud of you."

Brynden's eyes turned darker blue and he sat up straighter. "Thank you, Papa," he smiled hesitantly. "I want to make you proud."

Sansa sat on his bed now and took his hand. "We are both proud of you, Brynden, and many of the lords who have come to Winterfell have also remarked favourably on you: they say you are very well-behaved and courteous." She paused before continuing. "Many have offered…to take you as their ward, if you would like, and raise you in their home, as Willam was raised here at Winterfell," she saw the seriousness settle back into his young face. "And so we would know your thoughts on the matter."

Brynden looked to his father and back to his mother. "I have to go away?" he asked.

"No, my sweet boy, you will never have to go if you do not wish to go; but Robb has been away to the Reach, and Catya will be leaving after her wedding, and the Tyrells have offered to take you with them if you would like to go; or one of the Northern lords will take you if you prefer-"

"How long do I have to go away?" he asked worriedly.

Sansa shook her head sadly. "Winter is coming, my sweet: if you should go away it then will be some years before you may be able to return."

"You know you can stay in Winterfell, son," Sandor told him firmly, "and continue your training with me and your lessons with the maester. Then, if you feel ready in the spring, you can go serve as a page or mayhaps even a squire."

Brynden brightened. "Like you were a squire, Papa?"

"Better than me," Sandor answered, "I had to leave home, but you may choose. Only know that once you enter service, you must be prepared to see it through: it is like giving your word, and you know you must always keep your word when you have given it," he reminded him.

Brynden thought seriously. "Willam came here when he was eight, like me" he reasoned, "but Robb left when he was twelve." His brow knit together in consideration. "Can I be like Robb?" he questioned.

Sansa could not help breathing a great sigh of relief. "Yes, my sweet boy, you can be like Robb," she almost laughed.

Sandor reached over to pat his shoulder. "You think before you make decisions: you are a smart boy, Brynden," he told him with admiration.

Brynden flushed and smiled proudly.

"Will you go to sleep now?" Sansa asked and he nodded.

Both Sandor and Sansa bent to kiss his forehead as he settled under the furs.

"When I go away," he whispered now, "will they let me bring Storm?"

"Might be they will," Sandor answered gruffly, "every castle has kennels."

"Storm doesn't want to be in a cage," he replied seriously.

Sansa paused and looked at him a long time before she stood with the candle.

"Why do you look at me like that, Mama?"

"Because you are almost a young man," she told him, "and I want to remember you as a boy before it is gone," she told him gently. Then both she and Sandor kissed a sleeping Benjen and Sansa blew out the candle as they left the chamber.

Sandor turned to look at Sansa in the hall, and was curious to see her looking so concerned.

"What is it, little bird? I know you are pleased that he is not leaving," he rasped.

She looked back at the chamber door. "He is so quiet and watchful at times," she mused.

"Yes, he is a serious, thoughtful boy; reminds me of your father," he remarked.

Sansa smiled wistfully at his words. "Do you think so? I think it may be rather more than that," she told him.

"What do you mean, little bird?"

She hesitated. "I believe he may have the gift, Sandor, as Bran has-"

Sandor shook his head stubbornly. "Not likely, little bird: he has no direwolf," he rasped firmly.

Sansa knew Sandor was disturbed by the warging abilities of her siblings which he had first experienced when in the Riverlands with Arya. But though it made him uneasy, she also knew he did not doubt them.

"He has Storm," she pointed out to him.

"Storm's just a pup," he argued dismissively.

"It is said the warg bond is strongest with dogs, my love."

He stepped closer to her. "Is it? And why is that, little bird?"

The corner of her mouth quirked into a smile and she put her hand on his scarred cheek, looking deeply into his eyes. "Because dogs are loyal, and may be tamed," she told him softly.

….

The next talk they held with their sons was not so gentle, nor so happy.

Ned and Robb stood in Sansa and Sandor's chamber where they were summoned by the Blackfish to face their father's wrath. Sansa stood quietly by the hearth as Sandor paced back and forth.

"The next time either of you fails to turn up for morning training, you had buggering better be at death's bloody door, or believe me when I tell you that I will make you will wish you were," he rasped fiercely.

"We are sor-"

"I'm not finished," he cut Ned off brusquely. "You will continue to patrol the village every day with the rest of the lower ranks of the garrison. You are supposed to be learning responsibility, now learn about the lives of those we protect here. You will be a better lord someday if you understand them."

"Yes, Father," Ned swallowed contritely.

"Robb," Sandor barked.

"Yes, Papa."

"Your future goodbrother assisted with the boys' training this morning and helped some of them with their progress. You will join him tomorrow and learn how it is done. Then it will be your responsibility to assist me: we cannot afford to let any boy fall behind. Winter is coming," he emphasized. "Is that clear?"

Now Robb swallowed. "It is, Papa."

"Now, I know the way of things" he relented somewhat, "young men will drink and fight and wench. But you are not just any young men: you are Cleganes and Starks and more is expected of you because more has been given you in life. Don't piss it away, you can lose it all too easily: we taught you that from what we learned ourselves, so never forget it."

"Yes, Father," they mumbled in unison.

"And you will apologize to your mother for all the talk you caused among our guests," he rasped finally.

"We're sorry, Mama," they told her, thoroughly chastised.

Sansa stepped forward. "Very well," she accepted. "Your father has given you each more responsibility: I know you will not disappoint him," she said gently and kissed each of her sons on the cheek before sending them away.

Sandor stood at the hearth now, looking grim and tired.

"Our sons all admire you so much, Sandor; Ned and Robb will not let you down again," Sansa told him.

"Seven buggering hells, girl: tonight I wish they would all leave," he grumbled, rubbing his forehead.

"I know," she told him softly, and pushed his hair back from his face.

He turned to her now. "Not really," he conceded grudgingly.

"I know," she repeated.

"You're humoring me, little bird," he rasped.

"I know," she smiled.

He gazed at her a moment and pulled her close. There was a knock at their door.

"BLOODY HELLS! NOW WHAT?' he raged.

"Rider in the yard, m'lord," a page's voice came querulously from behind the heavy door. "'Says he's a messenger from King's Landing, sent by the queen."

Sansa gasped. "Arya!"

**AN: Thanks to JuliaAurelia who noted Bryden was like Eddard Stark.**


	15. Chapter 15

"Hold still, Sandor."

She was becoming exasperated; even Benjen had dressed in his doublet with less fuss.

"Velvet? What were you thinking: I'll look a fool," he rasped.

"No you won't, you'll look splendid. You did say you wanted to be more of a lord, Sandor," Sansa was almost pleading. He kept trying to turn around to speak to her as she struggled to lace his doublet since he refused to have his squire dress him unless he was donning his armor.

"_Gold_ velvet-"

"Clegane colours, my love."

"-with leather arms…like my armchair. Bloody buggering hells, little bird: you've dressed me like the damned furnishings!"

She finished tying the laces and walked around to look at him. She had ordered a gold velvet doublet with his sigil, with the supplest black leather sleeves and a standing collar. She clasped her hands together under her chin and smiled, delighted.

"Oh, Sandor: you are more than splendid, you are magnificent," she gushed.

He glowered miserably at her.

"Please now, my love: you know I love you just as you are but today is special for Catya; I'll never ask you to wear it again, I promise. I'll even let you polish your armor and boots with it, if it please you."

He grunted faintly in compliance to her wishes and then his eyes strayed to the gown her maid had left out airing for her the night before.

"Why are you wearing that one?" he rasped accusingly.

Sansa blinked. "Don't you like it?" she asked him. It was her favourite, a beautiful sky blue silk gown with matching velvet cuffs and a wide sash to flatter her small waist. She had only ever worn it on special occasions.

"Of course I buggering like it, little bird: but why did you not order a new gown, and in our colours?" he demanded.

"I wanted the best for you and for Catya; today is not about me, Sandor," she told him gently, but he seized her arm and pulled her closer.

"_Every_ day is about you, little bird," he growled in her ear.

"Milady," Sansa's maid called through the door, "will you be wanting to dress now?"

Sandor fidgeted while Sansa prepared, too stiff and awkward in his finery to even sit down.

"Will you not go to see her now?" Sansa asked. "She must be ready."

He sighed. "Remind me again-"

"We begin in the sept for vows and then move to the godswood for the exchange of cloaks: the septon has agreed to marry them by the old gods and the new. A page will come for you once everyone is gathered; you needs only escort her to the altar and-" she hesitated suddenly, "and hand her to Ser Loras," she managed.

Sandor put his hand on her cheek and wiped away a tear from her eye.

"I know this is hard for you too, little bird," he rasped gently.

Sansa nodded and smiled.

"I'm going to be so proud of you today, my love; and so proud to be your wife," she whispered, and turned away. "You should go now."

Sandor left their chamber and walked down the hall and up the turning stone staircase to the next level of rooms. As he approached his daughter's chamber, the maids were just leaving her and so curtsied and left the door open for him.

Sansa had chosen this chamber for their daughter because it received the most sun in the morning and when Sandor looked in the room was filled with clear autumn sunlight.

But it was Catya who shone brightest.

She was dressed in a pale yellow gown, trimmed at the bodice and sleeves with yellow lace and small clusters of jet beading. The small, intricate braids at the front of her head gave way to a long lustrous fall of dark hair that reached her waist. When she turned to him she smiled so sweetly that Sandor caught his breath sharply.

How many times had he opened this very door to find a little girl who ran to him laughing, or needed comforting because of a broken doll or a skinned knee or jealous girls in the winter town who called her Papa "hound".

_More time, please: it wasn't enough. Leave me my girl just a little longer._

"You look very fine, Papa," she told him.

He nodded, speechless, and then found his voice.

"I'll look like a stable hand next to you, girl, you look-" He felt at a loss for words: she was so beautiful, and she was his; but already she seemed to be moving away from him, like something dropped in deep water that slowly sank from view as it dawned on you that it was gone forever. He dropped his arms by his side, defeated.

Catya giggled suddenly, almost sputtering as she covered her mouth with her hand.

"I almost feel ridiculous," she confided to him now, "I feel we should be wearing our old clothes and riding out together."

Her smile faded and she bit her lip now as she walked towards him. She looked at the sigil on his doublet and her she titled her head.

"Papa Dog," she called him wistfully. "Could we ride out again once more, before I must…must leave?"

"I would like that very much…Puppy Dog," he added gruffly.

She giggled again: "We haven't called each other by those names in so long," she noted. "I know Mama doesn't like us to call ourselves dogs." She motioned towards her bed. "Will you help me don my cloak please, Papa?"

He moved to pick it up. It was the same shade of gold as his doublet, but made of fine wool with black trim and the Clegane sigil. Sansa had decided that a maiden's cloak should bear her father's sigil, not their combined house sigil. He lifted it easily and draped it over her shoulders as she tied the neck in front into a bow.

Catya turned and swallowed and looked up at him again. "Papa, are you angry at me…for leaving?"

Sandor gazed at her and his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"I could never be angry with you, Puppy Dog. I would be disappointed if you did not do what you wanted to do with your life. After all, I didn't raise you to shrink from anything, much less what you believe is right. I will always love and respect you no matter what you decide to do, girl."

She sniffled now, overwhelmed, and threw her arms around him. He held her to him fiercely, feeling his chest tighten and his eyes fill. He sniffed a great inhale and pulled back to look at her, his hands holding her face.

"You're wearing the queen's gift, I see," he commented, his thumb brushing one of her earlobes. Her aunt Arya and King Aegon had sent their gift with the messenger: dainty earrings of Summer Island pearls. "She couldn't travel because of her-" His hands gestured before his belly and Catya suppressed a laugh that her sometimes coarse father could not bring himself to speak of childbearing to her. Instead she nodded her understanding.

Sandor's eyes trailed down to her neck.

"You're not wearing the necklace," he rasped.

"No,' she replied softly, "I- I don't think I want it, Papa. Even if he were not a lion," she shook her head, "it is much too fine to accept from a stranger; and I know it makes you and Mama uneasy so I could never bring myself to wear it."

He should have felt maliciously triumphant towards the Imp, he should have sneered at his failed attempt to buy redemption for himself; instead he felt pity: the Imp would never have a lady or a daughter to accept his gifts, to wear them with pleasure and pride. Garlan Tyrell was right: Sandor was by far the richer man. He felt unburdened somehow, and calmer.

"You do what you think best: you are your mother's daughter, as gracious and gentle as she. When you see him at Casterly Rock, you must return it with thanks, as she instructed; or if you find he is sincere, you may even keep it if you wish. Your mother and I will not object." He put his finger under her chin and raised her head high. "Show him the lady you are, Catya: show him that a dog and a direwolf have as much grace and pride as any lion," he rasped.

"Well then," he cleared his throat awkwardly, "mayhaps you would want this instead." He pulled a small cloth bag from his pocket and offered it to her humbly. "It is not so fine as the other but…I had it made especially for you."

Catya took it from him and turned the little bag out in her hand and drew in a soft breath.

"Oh, Papa: it's like Mama's," she cried.

Sansa almost always wore a necklace Sandor had had made for her once they were married: a necklace of a silver direwolf's head facing a gold dog's head on a fine gold chain. Catya's had a finely crafted silver direwolf and golden dog running towards each other, but the clasp of the gold chain that fastened her necklace was fashioned like a small Tyrell rose.

"Papa, it is perfect: I love it so much and will wear it always." She reached to fasten the clasp behind her neck and then touched the figures at the front of the chain. Sandor nodded approvingly.

"You can remember where you came from," he rasped.

'I will always remember that," Catya told him passionately, "I will always remember who I am and why: I owe everything to you and to Mama, and shall never forget that. I love you, Papa."

He hugged her again, gently this time, almost rocking her to soother her as he had done so often.

"You'll come and visit, won't you?" she nearly pleaded into his doublet. "I know Mama doesn't like to leave Winterfell-"

"We'll come in the spring, girl: I promise you that. Your mother and I will go anywhere for you."

There was a gentle knock at the door though it was still open. The page cleared his throat.

"They're ready in the sept, m'lord," he announced quietly, not wishing to intrude.

"Aye, we're coming now," he rasped gruffly, still holding his daughter. He took a deep breath.

"They're waiting, Puppy Dog," he whispered, and he felt her nod.

"I'm ready," she replied clearly.

"That's my brave girl."


	16. Chapter 16

After the months of planning and preparation, Sandor was primed to do his duty as the bride's father. He led his daughter to the small sept that Eddard Stark had first built for his wife Catelyn of House Tully. Damaged in the sack of Winterfell, the sept had been the last of the castle's buildings to be rebuilt since most at Winterfell followed the old gods. Nevertheless, Sansa had wished to have it rebuilt in memory of their mother, and so this day it served for her daughter's wedding to a southron knight whose family worshipped the Faith of the Seven.

There were prayers and songs and vows, all of which Sandor vaguely remembered from his years in King's Landing when guarding Queen Cersei or Joffrey Baratheon at noble weddings in the Great Sept of Baelor. But today he hung on his daughter's words as she spoke her vows to Ser Loras, pledging to take him for her lord and husband, and he felt Sansa fingers slide gently into his before he closed her hand in his. Out of the corner of his eye he noted Benjen's puzzlement at the proceedings and how both of his young sons began to droop as the ceremony wore on, and so winked at them when they looked up and he was rewarded with a pair of toothy smiles and straighter spines. He sympathized: the Tyrell's septon, who had travelled with them to ensure their heir was properly married in what he privately considered the near-pagan North, finally paused what Sandor had begun to think of as his incessant droning. Did the godsworn fucker ever shut up?

"Let us now move to the Godswood for the completion of the ceremony," he announced with exaggerated solemnity, as though he were indulging wayward children. Sandor wished fleetingly for a wayward bolt of lightning or tumbling block of stone before offering his arm to Sansa as they left the sept.

There were more guests gathered in the Godswood than in the small sept as the mountain families and some Northmen cared only for the old gods.

Catya and Loras stood together before the heart tree, holding hands and bowing their heads in silent prayer. After a moment the septon nodded to Sandor who stepped forward to remove Catya's maiden cloak. He paused behind her briefly with his large hands on her shoulders before reaching around to untie it and lift it from her shoulders. He folded it over his arm as he stepped back next to Sansa who was looking up at him with watery eyes. He reached for her hand and held it with his over the folded cloak as Loras accepted what had been his mother's marriage cloak and carefully wrapped the green velvet embroidered with twin golden roses around Catya's shoulders and fastened it with the rose-gold clasp. The two turned to each other now.

"With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband," Catya spoke.

"With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife," Loras replied smiling happily.

As they kissed, the septon proclaimed them to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and though Sandor wished his daughter happiness, he could not help feeling his heart mourn her loss.

Rickon and Ayme had insisted on ceding the high table to the Cleganes and Tyrells for the wedding feast and so sat among the guests with their children as well as Brynden and Benjen. Rickon did rise to give the first toast to the bride and groom and their families and declared it the happiest day to see the first child born in Winterfell since himself happily wedded.

"Catya, my precious niece and the light of our lives, you and your husband and children will always be welcome and will always find a home and family at Winterfell. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

After the first course, Sandor took a deep breath, drained his wine goblet before filling it again and stood waiting until the hall quieted.

"My friends," he intoned harshly, and cleared his throat. He felt Sansa's leg brush against his and hold there, steadying him. "As most of you know, Lady Clegane and I were granted the honor and pleasure of taking Lord and Lady Tyrell's son Willam as our ward, and he became one of our family. They in turn accepted our son Robb into their home and treated him with kindness and generosity. Lady Cleagane and I could not have hoped for a finer man, nor for a more honourable family to join our daughter in marriage with than Ser Loras and House Tyrell. We know that with you she will be safe and happy and loved as she is here with her own family, and we are very grateful." He raised his goblet now. "To Ser Loras and Lady Catya Tyrell, to Lord and Lady Tyrell and all of House Tyrell," he toasted.

Cheers resounded in the hall and everyone raised their goblets and tankards to drink. Sandor sat down next to Sansa, trying not to let his relief show that he had managed the simple formality that he found so difficult and discomfiting. He always felt like a sham lord at such moments and was certain all others felt the same and so was comforted when his wife gently placed her hand over his and smiled sweetly at him.

"Oh Sandor," she told him warmly, "did I not tell you how proud of you I would be today?"

His mouth twitched. "Robb and Ned…helped tell me what I should say, little bird," he confessed.

She smiled. "We will never let you sink on your own as Lord Clegane, my love," she teased him.

The feast passed with more courses and more toasts, including Loras' to Catya and he told the guests that when he came to collect his younger brother at Winterfell, he had never expected to find his entire life in a beautiful pair of clear grey eyes.

"My beloved Catya: my bride, my wife, my life entire; I am overjoyed that the life I have dreamed of with you begins today."

Sandor felt Sansa lean her head on his shoulder and they both drank to their daughter's happiness. Sandor found some solace in knowing that the man who was taking his daughter away at least loved and cared for her and was not marrying her for politics or money, since he had offered no dowry and had only gifted Loras with castle forged arms and armour. Still, he had rewarded the smiths for producing their finest work and for deigning to stamp twin roses onto steel.

When the dancing began, he was obliged to stand aside and watch though he was pleased to see both Ned and Robb step in to dance with their mother and sister and Leonette in his place. He smiled though to see his daughter dance, thinking she had never looked so happy nor smiled so brightly. As he milled about the hall speaking with guests, Catya broke away from the dancers and hopped up to kiss her father's cheek. Sandor picked her up and spun her around and set her back to join the figures in the reel. A moment later when Sansa passed, Sandor simply grabbed her and spun her around and kissed her to great applause and merriment before setting her down and sending her off into the dance again. He watched curiously as Howland Reed talked seriously with Brynden about his puppy, and later spotted Benjen with his cousin, his namesake little Sandor, dancing in a circle with two little girls. His mouth twitched into a smile to see that he was not the only Clegane man who could not dance, though the little girl holding hands with Benjen seemed not to mind as she leaned impulsively to kiss his cheek. His youngest son responded by screwing up his face and wiping it with the sleeve of his doublet.

The night wore on and more guests were sitting and drinking than dancing, and some had begun slipping away with serving wenches into the yards and passageways of Winterfell. Even a smiling, wine-flushed Jorelle Mormont re-entered the hall looking somewhat disheveled. Sandor's squire followed in shortly after, looking terribly pleased with himself.

"More bear than maiden fair," Sandor rasped under his breath.

Suddenly there was a loud thumping, and from the back of the hall near a hearth, the Greatjon was pounding his cane and calling for the bedding. A roar of approval followed and the younger guests surged towards Catya and Loras, grabbing them and shouting the words to _The Queen Took Off Her Sandals, the King Took Off His Crown_ as the musicians picked up the tune.

"The life you dreamed of starts tonight, Loras!"

"Catya, tell us what makes his rose grow strong!"

Sandor stood rooted on the spot, overcome with a fierce instinct to kill that he had not felt in years, for in the midst of those pushing, grabbing hands and those loud, ribald catcalls was his little girl. He was about to step forward when he saw her face, red with embarrassment but smiling shyly at her new husband before letting herself be swept up in the arms of two young men who carried her towards the stairs with a bevy of giggling girls pulling Loras by the arms behind them.

Sandor knew full-well the bedding was customary; he also knew that during the ceremony or feast, servants would have moved Catya and Loras' belongings from their chambers to the one set aside for their wedding night and that the fire would be lit in the hearth and wine and sweets would be left for them and that rose petals from the Glass Garden would have been scattered between the sheets. He had even heard a carpenter hammering stronger nails into the doorframe and the bar. But that was as much as he would ever know, for he could never ask his only daughter if she had been treated gently and tenderly and cherished, as she should be; he could only wish for it with all his heart.

Soon Sansa was at his side, gazing at him and reminding him of their own first night together, so unlike this rowdy mob. Catya and Loras may have had their friends and family, and that was not a trifling thing, he knew that; but he had had his little bird all to himself. Their vows had been mostly unspoken, their love and their pledge to each other had been hard-won after years of trials and losses and what for him had been an agonizing separation, and they were finally together and for a brief moment perfectly happy, though they knew there were more trials and losses ahead: but this time they had each other and she had promised that they always would. She had not lied to him.

_Just a dog and his little bird_, he thought now as he bent his head to softly brush her lips with his.

Now as the revelers left the hall, they quietly slipped away to their own chamber, just the two of them alone, like that night so long ago.

...

**AN: for Sansa's POV of the wedding feast, please read "To Bed" [and apologies for plugging my own fics].**


	17. Chapter 17

Within only days of the wedding, guests began to pack up their belongings and households and return home. There was much work and planning to be done by all before winter, so they did not linger. Only the Tyrells remained until Loras and Catya were ready to leave, and Jorelle Mormont, who planned to ride east with Sandor and Ned when they left for Greywind Keep on her way to Poole to meet Ayme's sister Jeyne and invite her to Bear Island. Meanwhile she kept busy during the day with honing her skills at arms and playing with Benjen and Bryden and their dogs, and at night with Sandor's squire who presented himself every morning with dark circles below his eyes but with a jaunty stride and a whistle. The morning he showed up limping, Sansa was unable to suppress snorting with laughter.

"Hasn't Jory learned from horses that riding too hard can lame her mount?" Sandor rasped after the boy had left.

"Mayhaps he was the one riding and she threw him," Sansa replied and they both laughed now.

That evening in the solar, Sandor and Ned sat with the maester going over accounts. Jon sat nearby, looking equally grim.

"Might be we'll have to wait to work on the keep," Sandor rapsed. "The stores we have will help, and we can herd some of the livestock there in time if we decide to garrison for winter."

The Blackfish left Benjen and Bryden near the hearth and joined the exchange.

"There's a hall and kitchen, isn't there? Why would you need the keep for a garrison?" he asked. "They'd only damage the place with roughhousing and such; they may even pen the animals there if it gets cold enough."

"Mayhaps you're right," Sandor acknowledged and sighed, "I'm sorry, Ned; I wanted you to go and settle there, mayhaps take a wife, if not before winter than in the spring."

"What about the Iron Bank, Sandor?" Jon asked.

"Bugger the Iron Bank. You asked what I was prepared to lose and here's your answer: nothing. I didn't settle here and fight for the North and have a family to lose everything I have built with Sansa and our children."

"And Aegon's offer?" Jon asked.

Sandor shook his head stubbornly.

"Did the king offer to rebuild, Father?" Ned asked.

Sansa set down her needlework and turned to Sandor. "Mayhaps we should tell him, Sandor," she told him gently, "these are the decisions that lords must make."

"What decision?" Ned asked now.

"King Aegon wants Greywind Keep rebuilt, with a lord in residence and army at his command. He thinks we are stretching ourselves too thin in the North. He's offered to send men and materials and coin to see it done," Sandor told him with a bitter twist of his mouth.

Ned was confused. "But why would you not accept, Father: is it not what we want as well?"

Sandor scoffed. "You will learn in time, son, that no royal offer come without its bloody obligations. Aegon is willing to do this if you are prepared to promise that you will wed one of Lord Arstan Selmy's granddaughters in the spring; seems he has eight of them and desires them to marry well," he finished. The Selmys were held in high esteem at court since the exiled Ser Barristan Selmy had returned to Westeros with the Dragon Queen, Deanerys Stormborn. He had served her faithfully until she retired to Dragonstone in favour of her nephew, who could provide the Iron Throne with Targaryen heirs, making Aegon and his bride Arya Stark king and queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Ser Barristan the Bold's remains were entombed in the White Sword Tower, a solemn tribute to his service to the Kingsguard.

Ned stared and pondered the situation.

"Are they pretty?" he asked finally.

"Your aunt the queen says they are all fair, with the Selmy blue eyes and blonde hair, but Ned, I would counsel you not to accept this," Sansa implored.

"But why not? Noble marriages are arranged all the time-"

"Aye, they are," Sandor rasped harshly, "and your mother knows that all too well. Will you not learn from us, boy?" He stood now and pounded his fist on the table. "This is how it all starts! Seven hells, it might be you've all forgotten, but Sansa and I know it starts with debts, alliances, pride and grudges and too much concern with bloody honour. This one house wants more power at court, another house wants more land and yet another house feels slighted or just plain hungry for battle. Then it's war, with all its death and destruction. Do you know how many bodies I buried on the Quiet Isle? They were brothers, soldiers, woman and babes. How many burned crofts and villages did we see, little bird, how many corpses rotting by the roadside or hanging from trees? I know you still remember the stench, and the sight of crows picking at them. And all for gold and land and titles and bloody buggering pride and _honour_," he spat angrily. "Well, I won't play their games, I tell you: I will sink or swim as Lord Clegane on my own. Might be it took me long enough to get here, well it will just take a little longer for you, Ned. I'm sorry," he finished and sat down again, shutting the ledger before him.

"I understand, Father; you are right. I would not risk losing Greywind Keep either. I- I liked the thought of marrying though," he confessed.

"But Ned," Sansa told him, "what if you should accept this betrothal and then chance to meet some girl you truly want to marry, as your uncle Robb did?"

"Your mother is right, Ned," Jon added now, "you're four-and-ten; you needs give yourself some more time."

"If you wish to go to King's Landing in the spring to meet some of these girls, I am sure their Graces would have you to visit them; only, do not marry for money or politics, I beg you, Ned: for the lady's sake as well as your own," Sansa said. "No girl wants to be wanted for her claim or dowry alone."

"Yes, Mother," he agreed. "Will I still go with the garrison, Father?" Ned asked tentatively.

Sandor put his head in his hands a moment; and Jon spoke before he could reply.

"It's not an easy thing you're asking, Ned: being garrisoned in the North in winter with only a blanket and a pallet in a hall. It's hard, and it's cold and it's lonely for a young man."

"Is this how you gather recruits?" Blackfish asked drily.

"I'll need a good commander," Sandor spoke now, "someone I trust to keep order with the soldiers and the commonfolk. If I find one willing to go, then you may go if you wish, Ned," he told him.

"I'll go with the garrison," the Blackfish offered casually, "I can keep them in line: the soldiers and the commons."

"Great-uncle Bryden," Sansa said now with a gasp, "surely you do not wish to spend winter garrisoned at Greywind."

"Why not? It may be my last great adventure. This is why I stayed unmarried," he jested, "so I could be a soldier and go where I was needed. Why don't I ride over with you and see for myself?" he suggested now.

"It would be a great responsibility, Blackfish; and you'll be there all winter…could be three or four years or longer."

The Blackfish looked back at Sandor steadily, sensing his meaning. "You and Rickon will look after things here," he replied lightly, and Sandor understood. He was to keep an eye on the widow and her daughters to ensure they survived the winter.

"Aye," he rasped, "I'll be sure to look after things here."

"It's settled then; when do we leave?"

Sandor paused. "A fortnight after Catya leaves us," he replied somberly.

….

The following morning after training, Sandor and Catya set out on their promised ride together. The sun that had shone since before her wedding had lingered longer than their many guests; and Sandor though it matched well with his daughter's newfound happiness and glow. They galloped across the moors towards the Wolfswood, circling back once they reached the edge so that Sandor could return in time for his midday instruction. They stopped to rest on a boulder that jutted from the rise of a hill, to share bread and cheese and wine, and Catya stared long at Winterfell in the distance.

"I'm going to miss it terribly, Papa; Winterfell and the North and everyone here," she lamented.

Sandor nodded brusquely. "We'll all miss you too, Puppy Dog," he rasped, "But you'll be alright where you're going. He- he'll take good care of you," he acknowledged.

"I know," she replied softly. "Papa?'

"What is it, girl?"

"You wanted to rebuild Greywind Keep for winter, for Ned," she ventured. "I could help," she offered, "the purse aunt Arya, that is, the queen sent-"

"She sent that for you, girl: that's your wedding gift. You keep it."

"But I don't need it, and I want to help. You're still my family, Papa."

Sandor turned and kissed her head before speaking again. "Catya, you and your brothers have only known peace and I am glad for that. But things can change very quickly, and coin and jewels can be carried with you. Always keep some, just in case. A woman should have her own coin too. It can buy guards, or passage on a ship, or food and shelter. I know I must seem a doom-monger to you all-"

"No. You want us to learn without suffering as you and Mama did; and I'm grateful for your counsel, Papa," she told him.

He smiled even as he sighed. "It's not my place to give you counsel anymore, Catya: you have a husband for that now," he rasped gently.

"Yes," she smiled secretly, "but you are still smarter than him, Papa."

Sandor threw his head back and roared.

"Might be you're right, girl. Come, I'll race you back; but I won't let you win."

"Mayhaps I'll let you win, Papa Dog," she teased him.

Sandor laughed again: "That's my girl."


	18. Chapter 18

Sansa and Sandor woke at first light. The Tyrell party was preparing to leave early so they would be able to journey far and then stop and camp while there was still daylight. He helped her to dress and then they donned boot and heavy cloaks and descended to the yard. Wagons full of rolled pavilions, trunks, crates and barrels of provisions were already waiting outside the gates, and horses were being saddled for their riders and brought into the yard.

Ned and Robb had woken Brynden and Benjen so that they could say goodbye to their sister. Brynden remained serious and even stoic but Benjen pouted and refused to accept that his big sister could be leaving Winterfell for good.

"No, Caty," he implored and clutched at her skirts and sleeves when she knelt before him, "don't go away."

"Sweet Benjen, I must," she told him, smiling bravely though her eyes brimmed with tears. "Ladies must live in their lord husband's homes."

Still he blubbed pitifully and so Loras came to kneel before him too.

"I promise I'll take good care of your sister, little brother; and soon you will come visit us in the Reach. You'll be older, and you can show me how well you can fight and we can go hunting together." He glanced up at Sandor. "Mayhaps you will even want to squire for me someday," he offered.

Benjen huffed and sniffled and finally threw his arms around Catya and buried his face in her neck as she hugged and rocked him.

"You'll come visit soon," she told him, "in the spring, with Mama and Papa."

When she turned to Sansa and Sandor, her tears finally fell.

"Promise me," she sobbed softly, "promise me you'll come."

Now at was Sansa's turn to rock her and pat her back comfortingly.

"We promise," she told her fervently, as though taking a vow, "nothing can keep us from you, my darling girl: you're taking part of our hearts with you."

"And you're keeping part of mine," she whispered. "Papa," she threw herself at him, and he hugged her so tightly he grunted from the effort.

"I tried to teach you everything," he rasped tightly, "I hope it was enough, girl. Remember us, and take care of each other," he whispered hoarsely, and kissed her head. "They're waiting," he added when he saw Loras walk her horse over.

Catya nodded and looked up at him, gazing on his face and finally smiling through her tears. She kissed his cheek and then her mother's and turned to let Loras lift her to her saddle.

As soon as they were out of the gate, they all climbed to the walls to watch them ride away. Sansa knew that once they reached the first rise in the hills, they would disappear from view once they started down the other side. She knew because she had so many times watched Sandor ride out on campaigns during the wars, and later when he joined patrols before the garrison was at full strength. She clutched Sandor's arm next to her as she saw Catya approach the ridge, and then gasped when Catya stopped to stand in her stirrups and wave back at the walls.

"Sandor," she cried, waving desperately. He passed her his handkerchief and she let it flutter as she waved.

"She knew where to stop, little bird: I told her once that was where I stopped to wave goodbye to you when I had to leave." He now raised his arm above his head and waved back and forth as though signaling. Catya mirrored his motions to show that she had seen him. Then she sat back down in her saddle and rode from sight.

….

He found her in the godswood. Not that he had needed to look anywhere else; Sandor knew Sansa could only be here this afternoon, and that she'd be praying to the old gods. He tried to tread lightly so as not to disturb her but she raised her bowed head and turned to look over her shoulder at him and smiled faintly.

"Didn't mean to disturb you at your…" he gestured towards the heart tree, "I just wanted- , I guess I just wanted to be with you, little bird," he rasped.

She rose from her knees and turned to sit down under the great weirwood and looked up at him appealingly.

"Come sit with me," she asked softly.

He bent and folded and lowered himself next to her and grunted softly as he stretched his bad leg out before him. Sansa slipped her arm through his and leaned her head on his shoulder with a sigh. They sat together without speaking in the dense stillness of the godswood. After a long moment Sandor broke the silence.

"I promised Brynden and Benjen a trip to the Wolfswood to hunt rabbits," he told her, "better I should take them sooner than later, little bird: keep their minds off…all this," he finished.

"Yes, you are right, Sandor: it would be best you take them before this fine autumn weather passes for surely it cannot last," she trailed off softly. "It would seem that nothing can," she added.

"Aye, that is true, little bird; and the Blackfish has the right of it when he says we cannot keep them here forever: they're meant to go out into the world. Isn't that why we taught them everything we have learned?"

She raised her head to look at him now, and she hung on his words.

"We made this life for them so they would grow up right; and we fought together to make this part of our world safe for them. And who could teach them the goodness and harshness of this world better than we two? We've not lost anything by sending them into the world with better than we had, Sansa. We've won a sort of victory really, haven't we? Who would have thought that back when we started, you and I would have all that we have now, hm?"

She smiled more as she gazed at him. Then she reached to trail her fingers over his scars.

"Back when we started," she murmured. "When would that have been, my love?"

"Seven hells, little bird: not at the tourney, or on the roof of the Red Keep, or the night of the bloody Blackwater, girl. I frightened you so badly you cried; I held blades to your throat and even threatened to kill you. Can't think it was much of a start, was it, little bird?"

"I was terribly frightened of you," she told him, "but you tried to protect me in your own way. You told me the truth: about Gregor, about yourself and your pain; I wish I had been old enough to understand that you simply wanted me to know of the cruelty of this world," she told him, "and to know you."

She trailed her fingertips to his lips now though she held his gaze levelly.

"I feared your rage but in time I wanted your strength, Sandor. You know that I even imagined that you had kissed me that night of the Blackwater, and I think it was so that I could believe that you cared for me so I could draw some strength from that, from you."

She knit her brow together as she tried to explain.

"You cared for me enough to try to make me _see_ the truth and the world as it is; so that when I look back on it all now, I sometimes think that I cannot remember I time when I did not love you, Sandor."

"Then you've gone daft, little bird," he grumbled. "I never deserved any love, least of all yours."

"But is that not what you _wanted_, Sandor?" she questioned breathily.

He snorted faintly. "It was, little bird: this dog will never lie to you," he rasped low.

"You still tell me the truth, in a gentler way," she smiled softly, "as you just did now when you told me that sending our grown children out into the world is a triumph, not a loss. And that is worth more than any keep or diamonds, or a new gown: _let them have their lands and their gold, let them have their sers,_" she reminded him of his own words from so long ago, "as long as I have _you_, Sandor, there is nothing I need fear, nor anything more I could ever want."

Sandor brought his forehead down to touch hers, and he shut his eyes tightly and clenched his teeth to contain himself, so overwhelmed was he by her words.

"Your goodness is your strength, little bird," he rasped. "You didn't need me for that. You faced everything I warned you about, and you stayed good: that'd be a strength even I don't have. You had that strength in your all along, little bird; you didn't need me."

"But I wanted you, Sandor," she whispered passionately, "and that is when I _knew_ I loved you."

He leaned to kiss her but she suddenly raised her head and laughed softly.

"Hello there," she said sweetly. "Which are you? I think you must be Storm."

Sandor turned his head to see the furry black puppy wag his tail and bark. Brynden followed him a moment later and hesitated when he saw his mother and father sitting beneath the heart tree.

"Are you praying?" he asked seriously.

Sansa looked at Sandor and smiled.

"Yes, Brynden, I suppose we are: we are being thankful for everything that we have, and that means you as well," Sansa replied with equal seriousness.

Brynden stared at the face of the weirwood and then looked back to his mother.

"They're listening, Mama."

Sansa's eyes widened in surprise and she clutched Sandor's hand instinctively. Sandor shifted and cleared his throat uneasily.

"How would you like to pick out a dagger now, son? We can go trap rabbits tomorrow, like you wanted," Sandor offered gruffly.

His son smiled now and nodded happily. Sandor stood with a groan and rested his hand against his thigh for his first few steps.

"Come along then," he told Brynden. He stopped and turned back to Sansa, who shook her head.

"I'll be along in a moment," she told him. "Then you can show me what you've picked out," she added to Brynden.

When they left her, Sansa turned back to the heart tree.

"Gods of my father: know that I am truly thankful for all that I have with my lord, my love; and I pray that you comfort my lost family, and let them know that they are not forgotten. Please protect my children, especially my daughter, though she will be far from your sight as she is from ours, and my son who will leave us to make his way in the world as a man. I pledge that all in this house will honour you always."

When she finished, she made herself turn and leave instead of waiting for some sign or answer. As grateful as she was for her many blessings, Sansa knew too well from her past that sometimes the gods' answer was _no_.


	19. Chapter 19

"Seven hells," he panted as he fell back against the bolster. He wiped the sweat from his brow.

"Mm, that was lovely, Sandor," she murmured, smiling contentedly as she stretched.

"Come here, girl," he rasped, and pulled her close to him under the furs. "I don't leave 'til dawn and I miss you already," he growled hungrily.

Sansa laughed softly. "Imagine how your poor squire will feel once Jory leaves you to turn off for Poole. The poor lad will be bereft," she teased.

"I'll have to find him twice as much work," Sandor noted. "Might be you'll want some men to inspect the masonry in the guest house, little bird; it's likely crumbling after their fortnight of fucking-"

"Sandor!"

"The Blackfish is like to be feeling hard-up too, without his sweet widow for company. We'll be gone over a turn, might be two, riding and camping and inspecting a barely-there keep and walls with none but each other and our empty bedrolls," he mourned.

"Yours had best stay empty, my love," she warned him, "I've heard the talk of wenches and camp followers-"

"None will compare to my little bird…little bird," he assured her.

She smiled at him as she rested her chin on his chest, idly tracing her fingertips through the dark matt of hair. She tilted her head curiously.

"What is it, girl?"

"Sandor, do you realize that by the time we visit Catya in the Spring she may have children?"

"If they don't it won't be because they're not trying," he said sourly. "All those looks, like a pair of deer in rutting season-"

"Oh hush," she slapped his chest now. "They're married; and I want my daughter to be happy…_our_ daughter" she amended when he stared fiercely.

"Seven hells, so do I," he blustered, "only I didn't need to see it!"

"Gods, Sandor: what are you talking about?"

"I found them in the bloody godswood, little bird: they were brushing off their cloaks and he was picking dried leaves from her hair!"

Sansa stared a moment longer before tucking her face under his arm and giggling helplessly.

"Stop that," he ordered gruffly. "It's not funny."

"It is," she sputtered laughingly, "it is very funny and very _familiar_. Have you forgotten, Sandor?"

He took her chin in his fingers and slowly his face softened, and he traced his fingers down her neck.

"No, little bird," he rasped low, "I haven't forgotten. But I'm older now; soon to be a grandfather if you have the right of it," he said to her. "Might be I can't rut in the woods like a young buck anymore-"

Sansa quickly put her hand on his face and caressed him gently.

"Oh, no: don't say that. You make me very happy, Sandor; nothing has changed," she reassured him.

"…might be you'd like another forest beast to tend you, little bird," he continued as he shifted and rolled her onto her back. "Which animal might that be?" he seemed to ponder as he kissed her neck and shoulders.

"Rabbits are known for being quite…active-"

"_Bigger_," he rasped fiercely.

"Ah, of course: how silly of me to think small and timid when thinking of your love, Sandor," she murmured as he kept kissing her body. Then she stopped when she realized he was humming a tune.

"What are you doing?" she asked curiously.

He hummed some more and then sang in a soft rasp:

_She kicked and wailed,_

_The maid so fair,_

_But he licked the honey,_

_From her hair!_

Sandor settled himself under the furs and she could feel his warm breath tickling her. Then she felt his warmer tongue.

"Oh, my love," she gasped as she arched her back and sank her fingers in his hair. He raised his head for an instant.

"Sing for me, little bird."

She giggled and sang breathily and softly:

_Her hair! Her hair!_

_He licked the honey,_

_From her hair!_

_Then she sighed and squealed,_

_And kicked the air,_

_She sang: My bear so fair…_

….

Early the next morning, Sansa stood on the walls of Winterfell. She hugged her heavy cloak tightly around her against the strong wind as she watched Sandor ride out with Ned and her great-uncle Blackfish with a retinue of guards and handlers and wagons of provision for the trip to Greywind Keep.

Though they would return within a turn or two, Sansa knew that the Blackfish' promise to lead the garrison meant that he and Ned would be leaving again to stay the winter. Until then, Sandor would not tell Ned that he was to be lord-in-residence in his stead. Sansa's heart filled when she imagined Ned's pride at having his father's trust, just as she had seen Robb stand taller and his chest fill with gratitude when his father had given him charge of training the young boys in his absence.

She rested a gloved hand against a merlon as she leaned forward and sighed. It had been some years since Sandor had left Winterfell for any length of time and she tried not to brood on the thought of long days and nights without him next to her. Finally he reached the crest of the hill she knew so well and stood and turned to wave his farewell to her. She waved the handkerchief she had taken from him and bit her lip to keep her quavering breath from turning to a sob.

"Safe journey, my love," she whispered. "Gods protect them all," she added solemnly as they all rode down the hill and disappeared from view.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw the maester waiting for her.

"Ravens, my lady," he intoned. "Both came early this morning and both messages are for you: from King's Landing and Casterly Rock, my lady."

_Dark wings, dark words,_ she thought. _Let us hope not._

"Thank you; I shall read them in the godswood," she smiled pleasantly.

_My dear Lady Clegane, I had the great pleasure of hosting your daughter with the Tyrells when they stopped on their return journey to the Reach. She is a truly lovely girl and a very happy bride and I have no doubt that you and her father are very proud. She was most gracious in returning my gift, which she deemed far too generous of me but I could see that no diamonds or pearls could ever take the place of her father's gift of a necklace of dog and direwolf. It suits her, my lady, for I can see that she has your grace and his strength. Our young Loras is as lucky a man as his goodfather. I hope that you do not object that I instead gifted her with a more modest emerald brooch which will complement her new Tyrell colours. It once belonged to my mother, the Lady Joanna, (but no other woman in my family I assure you) and she did me the great honor of wearing in at my table that night. On a less happy note, I had my maesters examine Ser Loras's injury and they are not as hopeful that he will regain all of his sight, but I do not doubt that he and his new bride are strong enough to bravely bear this disappointment. A man can accomplish anything it would seem, with a strong and beautiful woman to love him. My best to your family, Sansa, and do tell your lord that he is very lucky to have respectively won and raised the loveliest women in Westeros. Yours faithfully, Tyrion Lannister, Casterly Rock._

Sansa smiled wryly as she folded the parchment.

"He may still be likely to piss on your letter in the privy, Lord Tyrion," she remarked to herself while shaking her head. Still, she was pleased and proud that Catya had been gracious with him and grateful that his maesters had tended Loras. Like Tyrion, she did not doubt that Loras and Catya would recover and live happily regardless, and she thought that mayhaps a little adversity would make them stronger. _Though please gods, only a little adversity,_ she prayed.

Sansa sat for a moment enjoying the stillness of the godswood and remembering her father before opening the next parchment.

_Dear Sansa, you will be very satisfied to know that I am so hugely fat with this child that I am confined to the royal apartments with none but ladies plying their needlework and gossiping like shrill crows for company. You were far more suited to being queen that I am, Sansa, but it is too late to change things now, only I wish Dany had kept her bloody iron throne and left Aegon and I to roam the Free Cities and visit the Summer Islands as we had planned. Instead I am sitting here preparing to push out another prince or princess whilst surrounded by fools. I wish you and Clegane didn't hate the capitol so much, as least I could have you here to laugh at me and him to fight with. How is the old dog? Did he hate giving away his girl? Did he beat Loras into the dirt before granting him his only daughter? I admit I would have loved to have seen that: the man can fight. Aegon of course was indignant to have his offer rejected but once he calmed down he appreciated Ned's words about unhappy marriages making for poor alliances and sowing unrest in the kingdoms. Of course Ned will be welcome in the spring if he wishes to meet Lord Arstan's granddaughters and make suit to an appropriate girl…which I will have already picked out for him. It takes a northern girl to know who will be suitable for the north. Anyways, given his grace wants Greywind rebuilt, there is some good news for Clegane he will likely curse to seven hells to hear: Lord Edric Dayne remembers Beric Dondarrion's pledge to repay his tourney gold at war's end. Since he swears it went to feed commons in the Riverlands, the crown may be able to provide some restitution though he should not count on the entire sum, especially since he tossed away the promise parchment. And he still owes ten to the ferrymen on the Trident. Never mind, just tell him. I miss you, Sansa, and Rickon and Winterfell. I'm dreaming of spring and of seeing you all again and mayhaps you can remind me of how in seven hells I am the one stuck here. Her Grace, Arya of house Targaryen_

Sansa laughed, knowing that her sister loved her husband and children as she did, but somehow she had ended up where she had never expected. Sansa understood: sometimes when she was walking through the yard, or sitting the high seat or watching her children in the godswood, or when she lay awake gazing at Sandor and trying not to reach out to touch him, and failing to restrain herself more often than not; she marveled that her life had brought her back where she had once thought she never wanted to be, with a man she had believed lost to her forever because she had realized too late that he was what she had wanted all along.

She turned to look at the heart tree again and smiled wistfully. The gods did not grant everything you wanted, because you did not always want the right things; but she had been given what she had needed and the hard-earned wisdom to realize and appreciate it, and that, Sansa knew, was everything.

**FINIS**


End file.
